


Something in Darkness

by 78424325



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Seisen no Keifu | Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War, Fire Emblem: Thracia 776
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Horror, Jugdral, Jugdral Series, Prompt Challenge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-01-14 23:05:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18486283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/78424325/pseuds/78424325
Summary: Because everyone has ataleto tell, humans and not alike.... Are you listening?





	1. S.O.S

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The big house near the hill is haunted, don’t you know?”
> 
> Prompt 01 – Haunted House

Seliph Chalphy enjoys his walk from school. The trees around him are lush and green and wild blooms yield pleasant surprises by coloring the sides of the street. The cross-country move was sudden, but getting used to his new school turned out to be less scary or challenging. The kids from school quickly recognize him as part of the group, and neighboring kids are nothing but kind to him so far.

It does not take long for Seliph to enjoy his academic year as an elementary student. At school he quickly finds his pack—courageous and cheery blond-haired kids who introduced themselves as Patty and Diarmuid, and at home, his neighbor Uncle Shannan occasionally visits on the weekend to see Uncle Oifey, bringing the twin Larcei and Ulster along.

It has been a little scary, but the rest progresses smoothly, and his pack starts growing as months pass by. It’s no longer the raven-haired twins going with him to school or the cheerful blondes who walk with him until their bus stop; soon it looks like the whole fifth-graders band together with him everywhere.

Little Seliph finds comfort listening to his friends’ stories, himself being hesitant to start first. At least his first friends share his love towards the greeneries, and nearly every day anyone who passes by their little friendship group can be sure of looking into a bunch of happy kids who laugh and chuckle under the sun, if not playfully pushing each other onto the grass. Little Seliph likes it when their smart orange-haired friend points at various plants and flowers they encounter along the way, mentioning their names—no, _Latin_ names which he cannot even pronounce—without forgetting to tell them that her even smarter mother taught her everything she shared with them so far.

On one particular hot afternoon, Little Seliph declares that he may as well call himself an explorer at this point because his last outing with Uncle Oifey and Uncle Shannan gave him a chance to explore the city. “Test my knowledge,” he says, closing his eyes a little bit to enjoy the feeling of the breeze swaying his pigtail back and forth. “I won’t get lost easily after this! Larcei won’t need to look for me!”

“I don’t mind,” the raven-haired girl replies. “We are friends! We go to school together! Friends do not abandon each other.”

“Let’s see…” Diarmuid clasps his chin. With eyes equally bright like the sunlight engulfing them, he looks at Seliph before whispering. “The big house near the hill is haunted, don’t you know?”

Seliph pauses for a second, imagining the place Diarmuid mentioned. The big house near the hill? He did not even notice prior—of course he remembers the hill, though; from his own window at the second floor, it looks so proud and unyielding, especially when the sky is gray and raining. There were nights when Seliph secretly opened his window just to gaze at that hill, to have his sense of hope renewed each time he feels like giving up. After all Uncle Oifey is busy, and an empty house makes him long for his parents even more. Yet his friends like this pigtail-new kid, and catching a glimpse of a tired Uncle Oifey who took his shoes off after a hard day at work only strengthens his belief that there is nothing much he can do except keeping his good grades without having to turn to Uncle Oifey for help.

When it isn’t raining, however, Seliph sees beautiful colors—the brown soil with forests and bushes growing on it, the various vivid colors of flowers and intriguing mushrooms when he is nearby. Sometimes he can see rainbow arching around the hill. Sometimes he wants to wake up Uncle OIfey to take him to the hilltop for moon-viewing because… perhaps he will see his parents’ faces again, telling him that everything will be alright, telling him he will not be so lonely—all the while he is awake without having to bet on his luck to see them in his dream.

“I don’t know,” Little Seliph keeps his voice low, darting a quick glance at the hill. “It is so pretty, though.”

“Ha! Sorry, Seliph! Seems you will still need us around!” Diarmuid declares proudly, slapping his own chest a little bit too enthusiastic that he coughs after. “There is a ghost… a ghost lurking in that big house…” the blond-haired kid drops his voice, inducing eeriness around them. “That is why you should stay away from the hill after dark!”

“Hmmm. Do ghosts lurk when the moon is full?” Seliph scratches his head. “And I didn’t do anything. Why would the ghost be angry at me? Besides, the hill is pretty. The house looks sharp too!”

“How do I know? I’m not a ghost!” Diarmuid shrugs. “And I suppose that is the perk of being a ghost—you get to be angry at people you do not even know.”

“None of you ever checked?” Seliph frowns this time.

Really—scary? The house is an antique one, akin to a relic from an age old past. The courtyard even has a fountain spring with a dolphin statue, and the tight closed fence only adds more into the whole mysterious vibe. But during daylight the house is beautiful regardless, and Little Seliph cannot help but thinking if the interiors are just equally beautiful. Passing by the house to forage mushrooms with Uncle Oifey one time gave him a glimpse of a cleaning—antique couches with gold-colored wide leaves were taken out, and a splendid-looking hand-woven carpet was being dried outside. He did not see anyone, but needless to say the majesty intrigued him.

“Why would I? It’s haunted!” Diarmuid scratches his head.

“Look at what you did,” Patty glares at him. “He didn’t know and now he’s curious.”

“Seliph won’t do that, he’s smart,” Diarmuid flashes a grin. “Unlike you.”

“Oooh, shush!”

* * *

 

Seliph fidgets with his shirt. He is smart, they said. Smart kids do not do dumb things. Like Uncle Oifey said, he should just care for the important things, like growing up healthy and well to make his parents proud. And Seliph would have thought being smart should be a way to do it. After all, Uncle Oifey praises his adeptness—with soft gaze yet heavy laughter he says that Seliph is good at chess, something his late father never was. When he took a seat to budget groceries, Uncle Oifey, again, with the same soft gaze, said it had to be from his mother, because the late Deirdre was always careful.

But Little Seliph hardly sees himself as smart. He only knows how to try—harder, harder, to not disappoint Uncle Oifey or his solid little band fond of him. Or Diarmuid who needs his copy of a homework, perhaps, after failing mathematics for the second time in a week.

On the way home after following the twins and their cousin to roast mushrooms, he passes by the old house again—still majestic and silent as ever, invoking such impression of mysterious elegance once again. Larcei and Ulster have loaded their baskets in Uncle Shannan’s car while he still clutches on them. Uncle Shannan has filled the basket with his own catch, nearly too full for Little Seliph to carry. For Uncle Oifey, he said, smiling when Seliph insisted to carry everything by himself.

“Can we stop?” Seliph grimaces. “I need to pee.”

The corner of Uncle Shannan’s mouth twitches as he nods. Taking Larcei and Ulster to the car, he tells Little Seliph to make it quick because otherwise it may rain soon. Rejecting the twins carrying his basket, Seliph runs to take a good cover behind the trees to answer the call of nature. He is ready to run back into Uncle Shannan’s backseat when something catches his attention.

The backdoor of the mysterious manor is open. Perhaps they are cleaning again. Perhaps not. Smart kids do not concern themselves of unnecessary questions. But smart kids think and find answers. And again, Little Seliph never sees himself as smart. If anything he dreads being seen as special—it reminds him of being an outsider, forever the blue-haired new kid in town with pigtail who lives with his uncle. Being ordinary means blending in. Being special means standing out, prone to stares and being regarded as an object of curiosity.

Seliph walks on his toes, half-crouching, the way he tries to catch Diarmuid off guard when playing hide and seek. He is smart. And smart kids do not do dumb things. One step, another… third step, fourth step… he has made it into the mysterious house’s backyard. At least the trees are behind him, and given the silence there is a lot of chance to save himself by quickly running to where he came from in case someone from the house catches him trespassing. In case this ghost Diarmuid talked about reveals itself to him. But will the ghost listen? He is there uninvited. He does not even know who lives there. And then he is there, treating the house like the object of curiosity it is, knowing well what it feels to be regarded one himself. Perhaps he is not smart indeed. Or perhaps he is because he isn’t concerning himself with these questions—instead, he presses forward, exploring deeper into the compound.

It’s still silent. Perhaps the owners are gone for the weekend. Perhaps there is no such a thing as a ghost. Seliph finds himself gluing his face onto a window, peeking inside the closest room from the backyard. Oh, such a beautiful kitchen as well! It appears rustically antique like the rest of the house, but needless to say everything is spotless and taken care of. So someone truly lives there, anyway. There is no such a thing as a ghost. See, smart kids find an answer. So perhaps he is smart after all…

That was before something caught his attention, however. Sounds of faint, faint sobs give him creeps. He can feel it; the hairs at his nape rise upon hearing the heart-wrenching sobs. Seliph’s heart jumps in his throat—is it the ghost? And is this ghost sad because he disturbed its long sleep?

Startled, Seliph takes himself off the window. His basket dangles in his grip as he races as fast as he can to reach Uncle Shannan and the twins. A soft squeal escapes him when a figure of a woman appears before him—she has beautiful flowing light purple hair she wears in a long ponytail, decorated with a hair tie which reminds him of one of those flower circles at the hill just now. She looks so sad, however, with her eyes looking far into a distance.

Seliph smiles. Politely. Just like how Uncle Oifey taught him, just like how he remembers his mother’s graceful gestures each time she received a guest. “G-good afternoon,” his words trail. The lady does not seem to care; her eyes engulf his like a wave which brushes ashore, washing over the sandy surface, taking some with it. “I—I…”

The lady shakes her head. Not saying anything she walks past him after giving a sad smile, making a detour to disappear behind the walls which separate the kitchen with the front part of the house. Seliph presses his face again against the window. His mouth parts in surprise upon seeing a little girl curling at the floor now, pressing her legs against her chest. The lady Seliph sees from prior enters the kitchen, approaching her without a sound. She sets herself on the floor, enveloping the crying girl with her arms without making a sound. The little girl does not move, and Seliph cannot tell if the consolation did not work or she is just so sad.

“Sssh. Sssh…” Seliph thinks he can hear the sad lady’s humming voice, as gentle as the breeze. But the little girl keeps crying, mouthing something like a cry for help as she whimpers.

“Mama, help me—I’m in pain…”

Seliph is tempted to rush inside now, but other footsteps rustle into the kitchen, stopping him at his track. Another woman comes into the kitchen. Her wicked long hair swirls as her coarse, heeled steps stomp against the floor. She shouts at the crying little girl, causing Seliph to blink because of how unnerving the way she called her, not to mention her high-pitched crass tone is unlike anything he ever heard before.

The sad-looking lady is gone, and at this point, Seliph knows he won’t fault her to take a flight like that—he even feels like escaping himself. Long-haired lady roughly plants her grip against the crying little girl. Her nails dig into her, causing the little girl to yelp as the long-haired lady drags her to the dinner table.

Seliph sees the crying little girl. Wicked long-haired lady has her back facing him, heating the pan, searing the oil and breaks the eggs to fry. He tries to attract the little girl’s attention—waving frantically, drawn by her sad face. The little girl slumps at the table, choking her own sobs.

“I feed you and you are still crying?! Ingrate!!”

“I’m sorry!”

“You better know that if not because of my husband, I’d rather see you out!”

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”

“Hey!” Seliph mouths against the window, picking up a small pebble to throw. He truly is horrified now. The little girl wears such ashen expression, and if anything else fails…

The little girl startles. What was that just now—pigtail? She watches the window again, closely this time, finding a small face of a blue-haired kid who waves at her, wearing a bandanna tied over his forehead. Her eyes widened when this kid simply waves—again, and makes a face; he pinches his own cheeks until they stretch like crepe dough on a hotplate, sticking his tongue at her and gives a kind smile after.

Slowly traces of sadness disappear from her face. Slightly rising from the chair as not to attract the wicked lady’s attention, she looks outside, finding Seliph’s thumbs-up dart at her. And with it, the blue-haired kid makes another face, sticking his tongue out, flatting his nose with his thumb, mimicking a pig. His poor attempt to say “Oink, oink!” fishes her tender chuckle.

Seliph thinks his heart stop beating the moment the wicked lady sharply turns her head at the window. Her eyes burn into his as if she is cussing him in silence, as wrathful as a malicious hurricane. For a stranger he has never met before, the lady sure has a way to frighten him. Her red lips are tightly pursed, and the moment she leaves the sizzling pan to open the door, Seliph decides to be smart after doing series of what he is sure Uncle Oifey will consider dumb—he runs away.

He runs away. His small hands tremble when he throws himself onto the ground, releasing his grip over the majestic manor’s kitchen window. Tripping on his shoes Seliph runs as fast as he can, hiding himself behind a bunch of blooming roses and slipping outside through the opened backyard gate. He thinks his lungs are about to give up when he sees Uncle Shannan’s red sedan parked near the foot of the hill, and his friends’ long-haired cousin shoots him a worry yet displeased look.

He does not even realize he has been gone longer than he said he would. Ulster asks where he is because Uncle Shannan is deathly worried about him, and he can only shake his head, not even able to say anything even when the car pulls into his driveway.

“Where is your basket?” Uncle Shannan asks as he presses the bell.

Seliph clutches on the long-haired man. “A witch,” he mumbles. “There is no ghost. There is a witch.”

* * *

 

“Well, I need to let you know your nephew trespassed into my property, Mr. Chalphy.”

“I’m sure he didn’t mean it, Ma’am. Was anything damaged so far?”

“No, but I don’t appreciate having some curious squirrel watching me like a spy,” their guest of the day folds her arms. “Perhaps you should discipline him. You are too soft. That’s why kids these days…”

Seliph watches as Uncle Oifey frowns. He only sees him wearing such expression under headache, or when they laid down his father’s coffin to rest. And now for Uncle Oifey to wear such expression, he wonders—did someone… something… die, or is the witch giving him headache? Perhaps Little Seliph killed her food. Perhaps those eggs were burned. But despite the aromatic smell, remembering her long hair swirling before the sizzling pan makes his stomach churn. He loves eggs. Uncle Oifey made great omelets. His father made decent _attempts_ of making one, but love always made them tasted alright. The witch lives in a grand house with a beautiful spotless kitchen. Clearly she is not lacking money. And she fried her eggs just like anyone else would—yet none of it sounds appealing in his mind now.

He faintly hears Uncle Oifey reassuring the lady that—yes, Seliph will not snoop into people’s houses again—but no, he is not going to discipline him in the way she suggested, and she better curbs that thought because it has no place around here.

Little Seliph does not understand. But then again he presses a pillow over his head, deafening the witch’s voice and sarcastic sharp laughter as she scoffs when Uncle Oifey denied her suggestion. “At least if you did that this would not happen.”

“He’s just a kid.”

“Exactly why, Mr. Chalphy!”

The witch leaves. Seliph peeks from his window, expecting a flying broom to take her back to the manor. But no—she drives an antique Cadillac, and Little Seliph is disappointed and relieved at the same time, even when Uncle Oifey gives him an earful of not snooping into people’s houses after that.

The next day he repeats his finding to Diarmuid because—again, there is no ghost, only a witch; a modern-day witch who drives a car instead of riding a flying broom or magic carpet. And those crying sounds had come from a little girl, a very sad little girl who curled up crying on the kitchen floor.

They want to believe him. After all, he is a smart kid. So they set up a plan, leaving on a noble quest, bearing witness to the power of the wicked witch. Uncle Oifey said not to snoop on houses or business. Uncle Shannan talked a lot about wild animals and accidents after dark. But none of these adults ever talked about witches and ghosts; there are only him and his faithful band of friends there, and Diarmuid being wrong or not, at least he knows that ghosts can actually exist. Lana talks about the so-called witch doctors—herbalists, she says, who treat people not with medicines but herbs and flowers procured from the wilderness.

“See, witches exist,” Little Seliph chimes in proudly.

“No. Witch doctors are nice grandmas,” Lana counters. “But my mother says they are called botanists and they are not always old.”

“Your mother has never encountered a witch,” Little Seliph isn’t willing to lose just yet.

So the twins tag with them, loyal as always while Little Seliph decides not to call Uncle Oifey. After all, Uncle Oifey was not so inclined to hear about ghosts and witches. After all, Uncle Oifey invited that witch into the house while Uncle Shannan seemed to care more about wild animals than… wild entities.

Their band of explorers find the house, with Seliph’s basket is still as intact laying on the ground. The witch did not even touch them—does Lana know a thing or two about botanists, herbalists—witches—who do not seem to harbor interest in mushrooms? He would have asked if Diarmuid did not already climb on a tree, hanging on one of the branches before throwing himself into the backyard.

They follow in his footprints, with Little Seliph holding up Lana over his shoulders while Ulster hurls himself first and takes her from behind the wall next. After Lana lands safely inside the yard, Little Seliph follows suit, climbing like Diarmuid. They trace the backyard again, braver this time now that they are going as a unit instead of a person.

“Did you hear that?” Lana whispers. “Someone is crying!”

“Sssh,” Diarmuid quickly silences her. “What if it is a ghost?”

“There is no ghost, it’s a witch!” Seliph insists while Ulster draws a string of garlics and odd-looking stones from his backpack.

“It’s called the hagstones,” he declares proudly. “They say if you carry these, you protect yourself from a witch that she cannot curse you or invade you in your dreams.”

“And what about the garlics?” Little Seliph inquires.

“What if she is a vampire?” Ulster insists. “She did not want your mushrooms. She cooked the egg for that crying girl. What if she does not even eat?”

“Makes sense,” Seliph nods, followed by the others. The blue-haired warrior leads his faithful band of knights to vanquish evil, taking them to the route he took yesterday, bringing them to the very same window where he glued his face onto.

“Nobody is there,” the courageous Ulster says after taking a peek.

“The crying sounds far away,” Diarmuid notes.

“But if we go in, my uncle will chew me out,” Seliph darts his glance into the distance, where the sad-looking lady previously took a detour.

“But we are here. Just one more try, promise?” Diarmuid nudges him. The warriors tread the battlefield once again, ready for a fog battle they are about to face. Ulster has his curse-negating equipment ready while Lana clutches on her first-aid kit box. Seliph has read everything he can find about witches and ghosts in a day, armed with obscure knowledge Diarmuid does not even know while the latter keeps his courage and faith burning. Larcei simply picks up a sturdy-looking tree branch to help them climbing their way out of the compound.

“S-someone is crying,” Lana whispers, clutching on her first-aid box tightly that her knuckles turn white.

“Deeper further, we are truly trespassing,” Larcei shifts uncomfortably.

“Hey, it’s the sad lady!” Seliph announces, catching a glimpse of the previous melancholic lady from yesterday. She is still the same—purple-haired ponytail wearing a dress matching the color of her hair and eyes, only that she looks even more somber now like melancholia has completely eaten her alive.

“Hey, wait…” Diarmuid calls, but there is no time to debate because Seliph catches after her—she takes the same turn like yesterday, and the kids find a back entry from the porch. Courageous Diarmuid slowly opens the door, looking like he hits a jackpot because the door has been unlocked. Perhaps the witch had been in a hurry like prior, not anticipating their warrior band would be back with a plan.

Seliph hops and treads, following the sad-looking lady. They find the little girl curling near the porch, and everyone gasps upon finding bruises and scratches around her. Sad-looking lady crouches once again, stroking the little girl’s hair with utmost compassion like it personally pains her to witness her condition.

“M-Mama…”

“Oh gosh, you are in a bad shape,” Lana seats herself on the floor, opening her box. The little girl winces and grimaces when she washes her wounds, but bandages and ointments soothe her pain that she thanks them as she wipes her face.

“Y-you are the boy from yesterday…”

“Seliph!” Little Seliph extends his hand to her. “Why are you crying? Why—“

“M-my aunt is a discipline woman,” the little girl’s voice squeaks. “S-she does not like it when I could not do what she asked rightfully.”

“My mother scolds me too sometimes but…” Lana wants to say something before gasping. “No. Nooo. Y-your aunt beat you up!”

“Y-you mean it’s not… normal?” the little girl squeaks again. “B-but don’t naughty kids get the belt?”

“Get the WHAT?” Diarmuid’s voice tears the vacuum around them.

“The belt.”

The kids turn around. The witch is still there, and yes—a belt is rolled in her fist. Her gold-polished long nails appear like a wolf’s talons for Little Seliph, and without thinking he quickly grabs the little girl. “Ruuun!”

Like a bunch of rallied knights his little band quickly catches up while the witch shouts at them, talking how she is so willing to teach them a thing or two about respecting adults; how they are nothing but a bunch of unloved failure who can only trouble their elders. The little girl clutches tightly on Seliph, her hand shivers in his. The sad-looking lady is no longer around, and Seliph can’t help but thinking it will be nice if she is not leaving this time—after all they need an adult, and if she seems to care for the little girl, shouldn’t she stick around and help? They are still strangers. And the witch runs after them shouting names.

“Get back here, Tine! You ingrate!! You should have died like her!”

“Ah, so it’s your name…” Little Seliph somehow finds a bit solace upon hearing that. “That means you are not a ghost, right?”

“W-well, my hand isn’t cold, isn’t it?” the little girl chuckles awkwardly. Ulster throws his garlic stash at the witch, who lets out nerve-tearing yell while running after them.

“I-it worked?”

“Keep the stones,” Larcei hurls herself onto the wall, giving the sturdy branch at Lana to climb. Little Seliph lets his friend escape one by one—Tine rests on his shoulders, ready to be given to the waiting hands of Diarmuid and Ulster. The witch cusses, earning horrified gasps from everyone else as she violently tries to tear the little girl off Seliph.

Ulster hurls his string of hagstones at the witch.

She screams—screams like a witch and probably worse when the stones hammer against her. And Little Seliph gasps once more upon seeing what happens—blood, blood oozes out of the witch’s scarred skin. Diarmuid pulls Tine while Seliph hops, tumbling outside the wall while the witch rips his shoes. The kids can barely take a breath when the witch frantically unlocks the gate to catch them, until…

Sirens and car lamps light on them, revealing Uncle Oifey and Uncle Shannan who hurriedly come after them. Seliph slowly registers everything—the sirens, the painted cars… “P-police?” Uncle Oifey hugs him while Uncle Shannan hugs the twins. The witch is taken away in cuffs, and while the kids stare in shock, the little girl they helped slowly lets out a chuckle.

At first it was faint. But soon after her faint chuckles grow merrier as her tears flow like uncontrollable leak, thanking Little Seliph a thousand times as the adults around him converse with words so foreign to him—child abuse? Neglectful guardian? This and that—who knows; what he knows is that never under any circumstances that his late father, mother, and Uncle Oifey had to threaten him with a belt. Ulster seems to quickly catch up because now that the tension has past, in a low voice he tells his cousin that the lady must have been human like them—otherwise, why did she bleed?

“How did you find me?” the little girl mumbles, her hand still entangles with Seliph’s.

“That sad lady guided me,” Seliph scratches his head. “I wish she would stay, though—I mean, didn’t she tell you anything? She comforted you when you were sad!”

“What?”

“Yeah? The purple-haired… ponytail…” Little Seliph makes rapid motions with his hands, gesturing at his own body parts to give the little girl a vivid description. “What’s wrong…?”

Little Seliph stares in shock. Everything around him buzzes again, with Tine bursting into tears while Diarmuid chirps— _I was right after all!_ —earning sincere smack from a displeased Larcei, because that is not the time to be proud like that. In between of undecipherable sounds while everything starts dawning on him, Little Seliph catches what one of the policemen is saying, who is talking to Uncle Shannan—

_“… Yes, we believe that is the case. Tailtiu Friege died a couple of years ago because…”_


	2. Bound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He has everything, but freedom.  
> (Of course they do not know. They never.)
> 
> Prompt 02 – Spider Web

The moment a limousine arrives at the building, people stop talking. Invited guests have formed a line by the sides of the red carpet rolled solely to welcome the most-anticipated person, and photographers quickly spring into action by drawing their weapons. Blinding camera lights take everything over in due no time that some people, distraught by the flashing lights, cover their eyes.

The limousine finally stops. The driver exits first before opening the door for the anticipated important guest of the day. That very moment, a blond-haired man gracefully steps outside, followed by a woman who serenely follows suit. Cameras flash at the pair the way cats find a fish for a hearty meal, and the dazzling pair simply keeps walking like nothing about this intimidates them at all.

“We’ll take questions after this,” says the tall, blond-haired man as he swirls inside. The woman simply takes his arm, slowly drags her feet along that her brown side curls swirl around her.

Like a mass bewitched by a cult leader, the crowding reporters and anticipating guests take their steps inside. Those who are already seated inside stand up when he enters the ballroom, clapping, throwing him the grand welcome he deserves. Besides him, the woman clutching on his arm nods and smiles, occasionally returning the praises with a simple line of gratitude.

He takes her to one of the tables near the podium. Different than the rest, this table is covered with a gold-colored sheet instead of plain white like the others. Grander flower arrangement stands proudly in the center, fresh and natural that the fragrant smell is nothing but pleasant for everyone. Cameras only eagerly follow him the moment he pulls a chair for her, with some whispering their adoration towards him and the way he is treating his wife to old-school gallantry.

He merely curves his lips. It’s not like he ever told people to not do what he did, anyway; after all he sees it as something practical—his wife has never been too lucky in the athletic spectrum, and imagining her shoes are probably killing her feet at this point, he simply did what he knows best—easing other people’s burden.

At first she refused to go.

She is a smart woman, alright—she understood well what to expect even before he spilled all the details to her. His lips curve again upon recalling how she easily guessed everything correctly, without even intending to purposefully silence him by finishing his sentences one by one. “You might as well call it a gala,” she said, casually taking out one of his best suits before he could even tell her what to expect. There was an endearing grin when she hung the suit under clear view for him to consider, saying that the moment the invitation reached him, she already had everything needed planned.

That is his wife—ever planning, ever ready. And as much as he wants to feel smug winning the unfinished conversation between them since… yes, she truly did not gauge the size of the crowd; more than anything he secretly admires how she carried herself out there, even if for something sounding simple like rocking those ten-centimeter high heels. Like his sister once said, men had no idea how much a woman spent and invested on beauty, even if she did not really feel like it.

“I’d hate to feel so short, because you are so tall,” his wife remarked before they got into the limousine. At that time, he chuckled. But now he thinks the photos will look so good then.

What is served for the gala dinner does not disappoint, either. The finest cut of meat, the most elegant presentation—all the five-star everything he can think of. The wine is nothing but splendid, and he figures it has to be years-old. His wife delightfully praises the cheeses served to accompany the wine before he takes the podium.

He exhales before giving a faint smile. He knows his wife is a not-so-secret fan of it, but apparently the charm is not restricted to her only—some people smile back like they are so taken with his gesture, the way the warmth emanating from such simple manner transcends like a hug on a cold night. Cameras are pointed at him again, but unlike the previously blinding ones from prior, this time they are more tempered, like waiting for him to start.

He can feel it.

It is as if his presence alone masters the room, and people heed him, consuming the charisma emanating from his being. No, he does not even think he ever does anything special—he is just being himself, as he is convinced, to treat people the way you want to be treated, no necessary aggression or snapping—and more importantly, protect those who are less fortunate or marginalized. He thinks that as a code to live by, and maybe, just maybe—he plans on dying with it as well.

That does not sound too bad. If anything, he will be proud.

He listens to the emcee speaking before taking the podium, his mind quickly registering the names mentioned. Always aware, always knowledgeable, for there is power in knowledge as those old proverbs would say. And to his knowledge, awareness does not hurt. Ignorance is bliss, but awareness helps. And he prefers a help—

… Or rather, he prefers to help. He lives a nice life. His life is any man’s dream and they probably will not hesitate to tear a limb to get just a half and probably an even smaller fraction than that. Help? He does not need help. He _is_ the help. After all, that is what he is for—helping. He is this charity gala’s biggest donor. So powerful his presence and work that they bestow him a nickname. A little bit too much for his fancy, but they will not listen for anything else—it is then decided that yes, it is fitting, and yes, if anything, it sounds like his person more than anything. Lionheart they said, if not Lion King. If he wants to be honest with himself, he will choose the later. Lion King sounds mighty yet familiarly cute, exactly a vibe he wishes to convey to those closest to him. Lionheart sounds so old, and despite his peers’ relentless teasing, even if he is not going to deny that he is, after all, an old soul kind of man, anyway—the burden is too much. He has to be that kind of person—a knight who unsheathes a blade and holds up a shield, riding a white horse to protect the masses. A knight in servitude to a master. It sounds dreamy, he says one time, but his wife objects because—apparently, according to her, it fits.

He has everything every man wants in life—a caring beautiful wife, a family, a job which pays him grand, flaunt-worthy shape and physique enough to turn and boil heads at the same time in awe and envy. A man in his prime in his late-twenties, some people envy him, some want to be him, some even want to wear his skin while some curse his luck. Regardless of what is what, he takes everything with the same manner—chivalrous perhaps the only right way to describe his bearing. He concerns himself not of the naysayers, does not take all the credits for himself, smiling serenely when those blinding camera lights again come for him, curiosity runs in the veins of those reporters demanding a good story—an inspiring story, at least, of why he, a wealthy man, dedicates his time and well-being to do so much for other people. His name often graces newspapers—donating to children’s hospitals, those little columns said; granting scholarships, reducing homelessness—especially children.

When the reporters return because he is clement with his smile but not his answers—this time wanting to take a good peek of his personal life, again, his smile is intact and his answers scarce. They ask him about his personal favorites, like the wine he consumes, the restaurants in his must-go list. They ask him to share a piece of his experience as a jet-set in regards to which flag-carrier airlines serve their privileged passengers at the best. They even try to get into his personal side, like asking if the specific pendant dangling on his neck bears a meaning. It is rather curious but not at all unfashionable—the pendant is in the shape of an uncanny black sword, and had it been in the size of an actual sword, nobody would think that it was not sharp, especially when it gleamed reflecting the lights around.

“Oh, no need to concern about this one—it’s an old jewelry, a keepsake in my family,” he crosses his legs on his comfortable couch, receiving yet another journalist thirsty for the story of his life. “It’s been with us for generations. That is all I can say, really, because this shouldn’t eclipse real news.”

“Ah, like an heirloom, you mean?” the journalist beams at him.

“That is a wise way to phrase it, I suppose,” he shifts, downing his tea. His throat feels warm if not nearly blazing, and he chuckles to neutralize the sudden cough he nearly lets out. “If you want to talk about fashion, I can schedule you with my sister. I’m just a simple man here.”

“Really? You are always so helpful! I wonder, what is the story?”

But at that time he already puts down his phone, again, with the same serene smile as always, informing the journalist that his fashion designer sister is ready to receive him in the following week. The journalist leaves the manor, again, without any groundbreaking or noteworthy findings which their predecessors did not uncover prior—but as promised, scheduled interview with a top designer landing on his hand like winning a lottery is definitely not something everyone can easily afford, let alone in one sitting.

As always, he smiles and waves, sending off the journalist with a polite regard. And the next day those newspapers do not fail to talk about him—how different he is compared to other wealthy folks out there, how selfless he has always been that he is always willing to help.

The journalist, however, had no idea that his throat was tormenting him that for a moment he wished he would just be decapitated instead.

* * *

 

“… Wake up, darling…”

His body feels numb to the bones.

He has no idea how many hours he has been sleeping that night, but everything around him is dark. He remembers passing on the couch, falling asleep or maybe not. The good news is that his throat no longer feels burning, but it is pitch-black, and it is safe to say he is dreaming. He can hardly see his own hands under such overwhelming darkness, anyway.

That voice truly is not his wife’s. If anything, he tends to rise earlier than her. A day is too short for a busy man like him.

He wants to call on his wife—only to realize that he cannot.

He cannot move his limbs. There is no break-in—he would have been wide awake had there been—

“Oh, darling. Why are you giving me that look? You know we need to talk, anyway.”

That soft voice fondles his ears, entering his veins like it is ready to settle and destroy him from within. Perhaps it is. Otherwise he will not be so disgruntled, so uncomfortable, so wishing he can run away, so wishing he loses his head because… because that’s what people said—dead men do not feel.

Refractions of light appear before him, and he wishes he could move to shield his eyes. He hates it. If only he could—he could just tear himself off the…

_… Bed?_

He looks down. That is his own bed for sure; his own desk lamp turns on. He praises everything holy that his wife is not there with him—she is safe. Or perhaps, she is _spared._

He grunts, frantically trying to move now. Only then he realizes it is not lucid dreaming or sleep paralysis which binds him to the bed, trapping his own conscience—spider web.

Thick white nylons encircle his own wrists to each of the bed post, with some others binding his ankles at the end of the bed. He is there, helplessly lying in spread-eagle position, taken prisoner in his own room, able-bodied man confined to his own bed that it is so humiliating to be defeated without even a chance of striking back. Why, he is at his prime. And why, dear gods—he is in perfect shape. His wife says that. His sister even says that. Sturdy, they said, and it is not just jar lids that he can tear easily. And now he is going to be subdued like some unfortunate damsel in distress—in his own room?

He wants to call for his wife—again. If they got him like this, how is she faring? That woman is made of glass bones and paper skin. Sounds of doors being slammed are enough to curl her toes, cowering in anxiety—let alone… aggression. Actual aggression.

“Dear, dear Eldie. Sssh. I want you to be a good boy this time. Just listen to me here, alright…?”

His skin crawls upon hearing the way that voice called him. Such nickname—such soft, cajoling… no, _enthralling_ tone—will a robber call him like that? They should have shot him dead before running away with all the fortunes he has amassed so far. Actually, no—even if they were to take his cards and run away with three-quarter of everything in the house, he will just let go. He always does. And he has learnt to, because he must.

“Lachesis?”

He chokes on his words. He does not recognize his own voice—let alone what he just tried to say. Lachesis is not living with them anymore. Even if she is—for they have kept her bedroom intact, anyway—will most likely than not lock herself in her studio. That is the trait he shares with her; the dedication, or as his wife puts it, workaholic.

But it is not even about Lachesis’ absence and her tendency to be hard on herself when it comes to her workload. It is when he notices the spider web does not only confine his movements as they pin his limbs—those soft yet thick white threads swallow back his words, for a good roll of them amassing around his nape, seizing his lips tightly that he nearly forgot what it feels to have a tongue.

“We need to talk, Eldie.”

It is as if he is transported to another dimension—the spider web is only getting to be clearer and clearer, and for a moment he is close to yield his fate to a monster awaiting him at the end of these… spiraling threads. This cannot be real, right? Even if for some reason a giant spider monster eats him alive here and there, tearing his flesh and limbs like a prey, he will be wide awake the next time because… because this is not supposed to be real.

He whimpers. He cannot make any other sound, anyway.

He closes his eyes for a second—the sensation of being maimed by a monster itself is going to be weird, he is sure of it. But to look at its wretched form? At least grant him some dignity.

“Dignity, Eldie? Dignity, darling?”

He hears a giggle. A truly, truly amused giggle. His head begins to throb. How did his thoughts even manage to escape? He _cannot_ even escape. His words cannot either—yes, as crazy as it sounds, he is pinned—tied onto his own bed, gagged with… what, strings of spider web? He cannot wait to wake up. His wife loves absurd stories. She sure will love his as well.

_Come out then, dammit, I have work. I can use some hours of getting back to sleep after._

“Oooh, Eldie. Busy boy, my dear boy.”

_I’m not a child you—_

“Still chivalrous as ever, you cannot even cuss with a degrading, gendered word.”

 _Who is this?!_ –“Hmmmph!”

A shadow approaches closer. What a weird dream. The room is slowly getting brighter then. Not as bright as when it is well-lit as always, of course, or outrageously blinding the way a camera snaps at him. But it is. And he can only stand—oh, sorry, lie still—agape—oh, sorry again, his predicament does not even allow his mouth to gape.

 _A lady,_ he thinks. He is faithful. He parts with the people of his past amicably—or in a civil manner at the very least. He had no unfinished business when he began courting his wife. Nobody stood for an objection the moment they exchanged their vows either. So who?

“Don’t you recognize me?”

_I’m a married man._

“You are funny. No, Eldie, I’m not desiring you,” he hears another giggle. At least if his mouth was free, he could vomit, right? Would it be too much to throw up in a woman’s face?

She dresses like…

“Sssh. It’s impolite, you know? How come you do not know?”

He whimpers under the gag. She has playfully—or so he hopes—stricken his face like making a coquettish slap. If a slap could even be coquettish, though. He has no idea what is what anymore. Where is the monster to devour him? Again, he is a busy man. He wants to _fucking_ sleep.

_I truly have no idea._

“Come on, remember me. Do a better job. You have never done a bad job,” she strolls closer, conveniently seating herself on his bed, playfully poking his ribs regardless of his muffled protest. Her long black gown billows in an eerily elegant manner. She has bright, overwhelming green eyes with long, long, beautiful blond hair like his. Her black gown is peerlessly elegant—long with a decorative red gemstone on the chest, definitely looking like a relic of a beauty in the age past.

_You are… a… ghost?_

“I have a name,” she whispers into his ear, much to his dismay. “You know me, don’t you? Mystletainn.”

He jolts. And she chuckles again, brushing her fingertips against his cheek. He wants to tear himself off her, but she captures his jaw, lips crimson-red as if she painted them with blood. Perhaps?

 _Get your hand off me._ “… Mmmh.”

“We need to talk,” she repeats before jerking his head away. “What have you been doing for these past few weeks, Lionheart?” waving her hands, gone are her chuckles, replaced by a sinister look. Her expression turns cold; her eyes hammering on him like a hail of arrows. He winces and squirms under her gaze, as if truly are those arrows real and that she holds his life between her fingertips.

Perhaps.

“I own your bloodline, Eldie-boy,” she snaps her fingers. Like a projector the darkness before him disappears, replaced by a quick-motion of slides; photos in black and white. Some he recognizes—his father, grandfather, great-grandfather. And then older than that—perhaps his great-grandfather’s aunt. And her predecessor. And…

_And then what?_

He balls his fists, trying to break free out of this mayhem. And probably the restraints too.

He fails. And Mystletainn simply smiles.

… He remembers. Mystletainn. But the name is similar to the—

“Yes, duh, good lord, you truly are slow with ladies.”

He winces.

“I give you everything a man can dream of—perfect job, prime physique—“

_Do not talk like I am an animal._

“You are. Humans are. Men are.”

_… Why…?_

“And all you need is to do my bidding. Satisfy me a little—you are worthy of me.”

_I don’t—_

“Ssh, Eldie. Really, your father never told you?”

He weakly shakes his head. What can he do? At least let him say no loudly, darn it.

“There’s no need for that mouth, don’t you think? Good boys listen?”

_AGAIN, I AM NOT—_

“Ssh, Eldie,” she shakes her head. “Your bloodline—you are a descendant of Sir Hezul the Great, is that it? What would he not offer in exchange of power—to defeat his enemies. Oh, right, that one was a warrior. Really, though, I wish they had invented that little machine you call camera back then. You should see how similar you both look like.”

_Hezul… the Great?_

“Sure you have heard of him, no?”

He nods. Weaker this time.

“Good boy. I know you will not disappoint…”

_You better stop stroking my face, lady._

“You _cannot_ bite, Eldie-boy.”

He grunts. And sounding meek at that too. Oh, this time he wants to cuss, alright.

“You helped those homeless kids. You donate to animal shelter. You fight so everyone… no, everything can live. You remember that despicable man who tried to advance on your sister?”

_Elliot. Yes. Why?_

“You got a good hold of him. You spared him. You should have killed him.”

_What?_

“Eldie, I thirst for blood,” she whispers, coaxing, ever so-gently.

_Then drink me._

“You are my master and I cannot.”

_Prisoner, you mean?_

She laughs merrily. “Charming. If you think it suits better, darling—sure, why not?”

_I am the master and I’m helplessly bound and gagged by some metaphysical power?_

“Please. I had to, otherwise we wouldn’t talk.”

_You can just talk!_

“I tried. How is your throat feeling?”

He lets out a muffled gasp. So—

Again, she chuckles. “And yet there you are, letting that one escape after talking about me.”

He smiles cynically under that thick layer of nylons.

“I guess you understand now, don’t you? Well, even if you don’t, you better, darling.”

_DO NOT. CALL ME. THAT._

“Alright, dear!”

_I will find a way to defeat you, for sure. Thirsting for blood? Hah. Make me._

“You?” she gently tilts his chin with her index finger. “No.”

_But you said…_

“I said I own your _bloodline._ I own Hezul’s bloodline.”

 _YOU—_ “Hrrmmmph!”

“Sssh, Eldie-boy. Get back to sleep. Aren’t you a busy man?” she laughs and laughs as he frantically tries to break free, yelling and screaming—if those can even be called such. Where are the others? His voice is contained now that his lips are seized—but surely, surely there has to be some noise then? Surely?

His head spins. And she begins to fade away. Fade, fade, fade away. And…

* * *

 

He jolts for the second time when a touch lands on his face.

“NOOOO—!!”

He pants. And his room bathes in light once more, giving him a good view of himself. There are his hands—his body, his legs—no, there is no crazy web whatsoever binding him. And that was his own voice screaming.

“Eldie?”

He squeals. He squeals like a little girl, sweat drops rain down his forehead like a hail.

“You are trembling,” she whispers. “What is wrong? Nightmare?”

He turns around. He is so ready to snap someone else’s neck broken. Screw chivalry. Screw—

“Eldie?”

“… Grahnye…?”

His words must have come from a fleeting world. He regrets having to look and sound _ridiculous,_ perhaps—but considering his… condition, perhaps that too is for the better because, oh, wow, how will he even handle the idea of being the one to murder his wife in their own bed, snapping her neck thinking she is… she was…—

The gentle woman he married hands him a glass of water; her hand patiently rubs on his back, giving him the sense of familiar comfort. It is her, his own wife. Not that wretched being of—

He knows he looks so pale at the moment. The curious pendant is still dangling on his neck, glistening under the light. The sword-shaped black blade pendant hangs loosely around his neck; its decorative carving of gold color and red gemstone appear so brilliantly vivid, so, so…

_Threatening._

“Eldie?” his wife calls again.

_Mystletainn, the Demon Sword… it thirsts for the blood of men._

“… Our son…”

“Hmmm? Were you worried about Ares? Ahaha, you big cat! It’s alright. The gynecologist said he is healthy. Just so perfectly healthy, you know? Like you. Want to feel him? He kicks like a champion—”

“… He needs to be an officer. Or something. Something... just.”

“Officer?”

“He will kill. He must. But—but let that be for—the right—cause—“

“You are blabbering.”

_I own your bloodline._

“No, hear me…”

“Ssh,” his wife hands a bottle of pill to him. “Here you go, the prescribed sleeping pill the nurse gave me. Take it? Will help you sleep better?”

“No—no—nooo!”

“Eldie?”

_… Eldie-boy? …_


	3. Messengers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Leave."
> 
> Prompt 03 – Silhouettes

Leif Claus likes his life low-profile.

There is peace, there is this lulling, relaxed feeling from being average—he does not bother people and they do not bother him. He is not rushed to do things. He can pick up his paces, enjoying how life unfolds around him. It may sound rather odd to some people, but regardless of what is what, he enjoys it so far. Life is kinder like this in a way—his life is his, and nobody shall take it away from him. Perhaps it’s the desire to take things slowly as they come. Perhaps something else.

Some people dislike mediocrity and determine to evade them at all costs, considering them as a prison to be avoided like doom. He, on the other hand, is contended of his life as it is. His guardian never complained about his life choices so far. There is always that silent understanding nod whenever they accidentally lock eyes with each other, with his guardian and family friend sparing a sympathetic look.

And Leif will brush it off. At least he tries to. Taking things slowly is one thing, but feeling like a cradled baby is another. After all, cradling is still fresh in his mind; like it just happened yesterday.

Sometimes some days he wonders if he even ever woke up after that day.

* * *

 

The air around him is hot.

When the teacher at school starts talking about constellations and planets with the class, he feels betrayed for the first time. He was awake in the middle of the night because of an unsettling nightmare—he heard voices. Those voices were telling him to get out, first sounding faintly before they began to be more and more demanding and forceful.

Get out? Where to? Why? This is his home, sweet, sweet Leonster boasting beautiful forestry and hilly views, with wildflowers he can be proud of. Father would do a short hike to get to the meadows in the early morning, bringing back some of the blooms for Mother. In the weekends Father would take him exploring the forests, teaching him about animals and sometimes plants. Father’s old friend, however, is more than knowledgeable about the outdoors. It is from him that he learned not all mushrooms could be eaten, and that some plants can be broken on the leaves in case they need some water.

At that time the sun was still sleeping, just like nearly all of Leonster. Just like Mother. Father scooped him into his arms, his sturdy boots-covered feet traced the meadows. He finds himself sitting on Father’s strong shoulders, inhaling fresh air in satisfaction. Leonster is a blessing and he loves this birthplace of his very much. He cannot imagine to be anywhere else than Leonster, anywhere else than Father and Mother’s beautiful, rustic comfortable cabin with Father’s car parked nearby, ready to send him to school everyday. At that time, Father’s voice was calm as he pointed at the sky to name all the celestial beings his teacher at school could only say but not show—there are stars with beautiful names… and there are stars with specific names, Father said, which help farmers tell time and season to guide them growing crops or harvesting them. And above all, the true golden beauty hanging up on the silky dark curtain that is the sky is called Venus.

At that time he beamed and sighed. Perhaps it was because everything had been beautiful so far. Perhaps because Father’s voice was relaxing. When Father said that Leonster is his and nobody shall take it away from him, he agreed whole-heartedly. And that night those voices gave up.

He only wished that the teacher at school would not have to tell him that Venus’ beauty is made of harsh, merciless atmosphere and an even more unforgiving surface—Hellfire.

* * *

 

The new transfer student in his class is quiet but possessing the sharpest gaze he has ever seen so far. She is not saying much most of the time, preferring to take a backseat either close to the wall or near the class’ utility drawers in a manner akin to someone who wants no part of the loud, merry, and sometimes chaotic environment of the class. They are high school sophomore, anyway.

The girl has dark circles under her eyes. Not only that she looks tired all the time, she also sounds tired.

Leif tries to befriend her.

He sees people laughing behind her back, treating her like some sort of a contagious disease needing to be avoided at all costs if not a disgruntled animal they would want to poke with a stick. He shares his lunch with her, asking where she hails from, what brought her to Fiana, if she has any siblings. And she simply glares at him before withdrawing, letting out a soft exasperated sigh which he is unsure to be directed at him or more to herself. And she will turn her back on him, looking into a distance from the window nearby and he is unsure if it is her way to tell him off or if she is staring into something else.

… Something that is no longer there.

At first he chastises himself for projecting, but at the same time he knows that they are alike.

Regardless, after nearly getting smacked hard in the face for abruptly approaching her, for the first time she sits down beside him, again, with eyes miles away like prior. Slowly she opens her mouth to tell him that her name is Miranda, and that she has been insomniac for too long to remember. Her dreams are always vivid and unpleasant, leaving her sweating on her bed, feeling so confused and disoriented, followed with a hollow, anxiety-inducing feeling enough to keep her awake at night.

“Sometimes it’s voices.” Her eyes widen and her body language shifts into a more deferring manner, so careful when she speaks. She drags her knees closer to her chest—there is nobody but them in the sports room, and she slumps onto the court after failing to dunk a basketball.

“You need rest,” he responds. “How about I send you home?”

She tilts her head at him, and just like that, he sees it again—her short bob orange hair billows framing her face, her eyes shooting into his like a dog barking a warning. In a split second, however, she is back to drown her head again; hugging herself as if she is trying to protect herself from… something.

But what?

“Are you cold?” he asks. He has never done that before, but automatically, he takes off his sweater, draping it over her. Father did that to Mother often. His guardian, the expert explorer, is not only well-versed in mushrooms and the wilderness—he often told her about the art of gallantry, apparently, and how it would please his parents had they were alive to see him growing into a commendable man.

She swats his hand off her. The sweater haplessly falls onto the ground. Picking it up, he looks at her again, and before he can mutter an apology, she races him to it first. “I should not… no, you should not…”

“It’s alright,” he takes his sweater back. “You are sitting like that, so I thought…”

“I am not cold, Leif,” she mumbles. “It is hot. It was very hot. I thought my lungs would melt.”

“What?”

“The dream,” she whispers. “Perhaps if drown my head in my lap, I would stop seeing them—gray silhouettes, forcefully telling me things.”

“Venus.”

“Pardon?”

He purses his lips, sheepishly scratching his head for even uttering that. And somehow the story flows—the father who would let him on his shoulders every early morning to look at the skies; the story about the goddess of love and beauty appearing like a brilliant golden dot on navy-blue layers of the skies. But one time a teacher said the goddess has more than beauty and love—the way this brilliant golden dot contains fiery volcanoes and eternal firestorms. And she, with her orange hair and hot-headedness—

He expects a chiding. It takes a lot, a lot more than getting used to the school on the first day he enrolled—to even earn her friendship. And he just compared her to a wrathful entity right when she began to open up.

The corner of her mouth twitches a little, however. In an expected turnabout, suddenly she chuckles, a merry staccato forming in her throat before it becomes louder and louder, beaded with joy and amusement.

She assures him that her name is Miranda, not Venus. And that he can rectify the nickname he has been so carelessly projecting onto her by standing as her guard dog while she steals some sleep.

He quickly agrees. And she tells him those gray figures with forceful voices only come at night.

* * *

 

The air around him is hot.

When he blinks, he finds everything is being devoured by fire. The darkness is suffocating, and it helps concealing small dark clouds which slowly form around him.

He has to get out, for sure. There is no time to think of otherwise, so he begins feeling the wall to locate the light switch. His small hand traces around, trying to prevail under such darkness until he finds something—a different kind of surface over the wall.

He touches it.

A quick zap sends shocking sensation all over him. For seconds-while, his head feels so light. His body is numb, and much so his palm. His nostrils smell something burning while his lungs are doing their best to pump the smoke out.

He has to get out.

His small body slumps on the floor. With a hand which cannot feel, he decides to feel his way around until he can get through the door. Or perhaps do some cool moves like he sees on the TV with the hero breaking windows with a quick chair-throw before jumping to freedom.

Perhaps he can do that. The people on TV made it appear so easy. Perhaps because they are adults. But the chair he uses for his desk to study is sturdy too, because Father built it out of teak wood from the forest. Father is sturdy and strong. He remembers Father would take Mother in his embrace, spinning her around the kitchen as Mother goofily laughed with his baby-self pressed against her chest.

“Leif!”

He blinks again. The door before him is being torn down, forcefully opened with multiple shoulder-slams. His name is being called over and over again, with the family friend and expert explorer quickly picking him up off the floor, bundling him in thick layers of… wet blanket as he grabs him against the window. The savior-uncle’s blue strands are right over his nose when he bends his head, protecting him from a crumbling ceiling.

He coughs and coughs as savior-uncle grabs a stool to throw. Like in those movies he watched, the sturdy wooden stool hammers itself against the glasses, and savior-uncle throws himself backward in a flash to shield him against the shards. “Hold tight, Leif.”

He whimpers something about how his nostrils feel like burning, how he thinks he can pass out because he can no longer breathe. Savior-uncle clutches him so tightly like he is his life in the form of a person, mumbling something about how he will live regardless because that is what he promised Father.

“… And Father, Uncle Finn?”

His savior does not reply.

* * *

 

“There were smokes everywhere,” she tells him. He does not recall who proposed first, but their mutual cooperation started after then—she would gladly let him copy her history homework while he stood guard outside the locker room so she could sleep. And for two other occasions, he had brought her sandwiches, one was sweet with peanut butter while the other savory with smoked beef.

“The dream?”

“Yeah,” she nods, again pressing her knees against her chest. This is an unlikely friendship, if they can even call it that way. There is a deal being made, and the dark circles under her eyes begin to tone down a little bit after a while, the way her copied homework slowly improves his grade. “I can’t breathe. I won’t be able to breathe. And everything around me crumbles. One by one. I wonder. Have your teacher ever said if it was the case had Venusian firestorms decided to devour their target?”

“I don’t know,” he squeaks a little. It does not sound like a typical question, and the visual imagination sends chills down his spine. He really does not think his teacher would appreciate having to imagine a… Hellfire, anyway. And who is the sinner here doing what that the class must engross themselves to picture a merciless Hellfire?

“Oh,” she responds. “I wish your teacher had. I wanted to know. I would always wake up.”

“… I don’t want to,” his words trail then. He remembers the shards glisten in darkness. If they are seeming to melt, how about… how about—

… Human flesh?

“Eh, sorry for being a spoilsport,” she laughs bitterly. “It’s not like I wanted this.”

“Eh, don’t sweat it,” he pats her shoulder sympathetically. “I know how it feels.”

This time she does not stare into the distance like she always does. “What do you mean?”

“Engulfing fire, isn’t it?” he grimaces. “… I am from Leonster, you know. And a decade ago…”

“Oh,” she muffles her own reply. “The great wildfire.”

“Yeah,” he settles himself beside her. “My house was close to the forest. It was Venus.”

“Venus?”

“Hellfire,” he mumbles, contemplating on his shoes. “My father lied. Venus isn’t pretty at all.”

She inhales heavily, and this time taking her sweater off, handing it to him. “You know what, I think you need that nap as well. Come on.”

“One of us has to stand guard as always,” he shakes his head. “You’ve given me your homework. Now I get to do the job.”

“Nah, it’s fine. Come on, Leif. Nap. I ain’t the only one with dark circles here. What’s the story?”

He chuckles awkwardly. “And if a teacher finds us napping here?”

“Who cares,” she bites her lip. “Who cares. They don’t care about us, either.”

* * *

 

The air around him is hot.

He wants to believe in her words—that the cruelest usually hunts you down during the night, where you have lowered your guard after putting it on for the entire day. Perhaps that is why all the things you repress hits back the hardest at the witching hour, when you just want to sleep, exhausted to the bones and veins with bleary red eyes from tormenting sleepiness which just does not give in.

The air around him is hot…

_“Leave.”_

He blinks. And there is a bed under him. This time he is not going to make the same mistake ever again. He will find the light switch. He will turn it on, get to the door before uncle-savior does and saves his parents. So he rolls his blanket over him, ready to brave Hellfire.

He wants to believe in Father, who insists that Venus is beautiful. Because it shines. Because it distracts him so much that one time Mother playfully caught his lips on a soft kiss. Because apparently it was around the similar hour when Mother told Father that she was conceiving him.

“Uncle Finn! Uncle Finn!!”

That is good. He is not coughing. His eyes are getting used to darkness, and instead of hammering the stool against the window, he throws it against his bedroom door, hoping to create a noise, telling all his elders that he is safe, and he is coming out to get them.

Uncle-savior does not respond. He starts to worry. What if everything has gone in reverse? He is safe, while the rest isn’t. And regardless of what was what, uncle-savior was an adult saving a little five-year old from his own trapping bedroom while now he has to save all the adults.

He does not even know where uncle-savior slept for the night after hunting with Father. He only knows Father’s room because Mother sleeps there too, and he has been inside many times—when a thunder startled him, when he thought he heard a wolf howling in a distance, when one time in his life he desperately believed a monster hid under the bed. And Father would scoop him again, joining him with Mother on the bed, in which the latter wrapped her arm around him. Perhaps mothers have healing effect. His fears were so small the moment he joined them on their bed, sleeping soundly like cradled by the angels themselves until the next morning, where Father would tease and Mother would say that not even monsters could stand a chance in a fight against Father.

Perhaps fire could when monsters failed.

_“Leave…”_

There are noises in his head. There are voices, first in the form of whispers, and more and more erupt into urging… violent urges. They are telling him the same thing—to leave. Leave, leave, leave.

 _No,_ he thinks, fighting the suffocating sensation which drowns his nostrils. Not again. Not again, he is close to make it. He is going to save everyone this time. Not again. _I’ve been running since forever._

_“Then leave. Leave if you want to let live.”_

_I don’t understand,_ he thinks again. _I don’t—_

“Leif?”

He gasps. Miranda shakes him violently. Colors fall from her face; her expression is a mixture of crestfallen, confusion, and fear. He barely opens his mouth to say anything, wondering if he misheard if at all—after all, _leave_ and _Leif_ sound similar. Are they coming for him or disliking him so much that they cannot wait to throw him out? Which one?

“You thrashed around. I thought…” her hand clutches on him so, so tightly.

“I’m alright,” he blurts out. “Are you? You look so pale.”

“… You deliriously said what I would when…” she squeaks. “You kept telling me to leave. I recorded myself when the nightmares began and apparently, I, too…”

He pauses then. “How come we are dreaming of the same thing?”

“All these times too,” she nods. “You know, Leif, perhaps we truly should see a doctor.”

“I hate hospitals,” he murmurs.

“Well, I’m not a fan either,” she bites her lip again, groggily this time. “But if that is the case…”

“You need sleep, yeah,” he concurs.

“So do you,” she nods back. “Maybe we can check ourselves at a nearby clinic first?”

“Perhaps going with a friend will make it less scary,” he nods. “I guess…”

“Yeah,” she wryly smiles. She looks so tired and exhausted and he wonders if he looks the same. They drag their despaired steps from the locker room when something loud and harsh breaks around them. “W-what’s that?” she jolts, nearly dropping her backpack in the process.

“Fire… alarm…?” he looks at her. “Fire…”

She looks back. And they exchange glances. Together they run out of the locker room, akin to race the Devil himself as a smell of something burning begins to invade their noses. Hand-in-hand they barge into any room, opening the doors they encounter along the way, shouting, screaming, yelling. In a short while there are masses running to follow their lead, barging into the doors. Thick, thick smoke begins to blur their visions and make their eyes bleary.

He kicks the door, hard. She helps beside him, her hands blindly try guiding themselves to find the handle. They hear yelling and shouting from the outside, and he throws a mop hard against the glass pane, shattering it into shards. He hears her squeaking a little, perhaps something pricks into her skin.

He apologizes. Profusely apologizes, distracting her from the pain and a group of amassed confused, scared teenagers behind them. He can see a teacher reaching for one of the door handle from outside, from the glass pane he shattered.

A flow of panicked high schoolers rushes outside the moment the doors are open. Firefighters and their helmet and safety vests rush in, and he finds himself draping his sweater over her because she uses hers for a makeshift bandage for her scarred skin.

_“Leave…”_

Those voices again. He hisses. _I am now!! YOU leave! Stop haunting us!_

_“Are you safe?”_

_I manage,_ he screams in silence, in the midst of shouting for medical assistance fearing he has torn a vein because of his careless throw. He hands Miranda to the waiting hand of the school clinic’s nurse, which quickly takes a good look to examine her wound. Coughing violently he ignores his friends’ pleas and compliments to react in time to save everyone else.

* * *

 

He sits by her bed. The clinic smells like clinic which he does not like, because it reminds him of that night. The night wildfire engulfed Leonster into ashes. The night uncle-savior went vigil besides his bed, clasping his hands so tightly with floating apologies directed at his parents as he kept calling their names. The tightness of his embrace the moment he opened his eyes after nurses took the oxygen mask off him.

“How are you feeling?” he whispers.

Miranda grins. She is always a strong girl, anyway. She even punches his shoulder when he apologized for scarring her. And she told him it’s better to get a stitch rather than burning to crisp at school.

“I had a good sleep,” she says then.

They are silent again until he braves himself, breaking the silence between them. “No nightmare?”

“No,” she answers. “Somehow I’m convinced that would be the last time I’d ever have that again.”

“Why are you so certain?” a faint smile brews on his lips because—strangely, he thinks the same.

“I’m never wrong,” she shrugs. “I mean. Like. I know you are a good friend anyway.”

He chuckles. “Dude. You are stoned.”

“Out of aspirin?” she grins.

“Perhaps?” he grins back. “Still does not explain why we had the same dream, though. I mean, alright, technically speaking I’m from Leonster. Can you imagine Paradise and Hellfire can exist at the same time? But if it was trauma, why did you have the same exact nightmares like I did?”

She fidgets with her sweater. He swats her hand.

“Stop that, M, you just got stitched.”

“And I just punched you. Your point?” she sighs, but obeys regardless. “You know—perhaps…”

“What, that you are not actually human but some sort of Supergirl?” he mocks.

“I am though,” she strikes back, but her expression solemn. “I’m from Alster.”

“… No way.”

“Yeah,” again, she fidgets with her sweater. “… Burning like Leonster.”

_“Leave.”_

_What?_

_“… Leif?”_

He blinks. Oh. His name. Not urging him to leave?

Two figures wave at him from under the trees, the biggest and closest to the window where Miranda is being nursed. He gasps. The figures are bathed in light; soft spark emanate from them as they wave at him with the brightest, kindest, most peaceful smile he ever witnessed so far.

_“Good job. We are proud of you. I hope Finn knows how much we treasured our friend too.”_

He waves back. Holding up his tears he watches them fading away—their brilliant pink hair and brown hair, their hands joined with each other; their purple-pink dress and brown coat.

_“Don’t blame yourself. You are like Finn.”_


	4. They Said...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They call her demon child, but her parents call her Sara.
> 
> Prompt 04 – Shadows

She closes her eyes.

Her expression is solemn and calm, yet alert and wishful. People are crowding around her while a distraught middle-aged woman waits in anticipation. Another person approaches her—his expression spoke a mixture of curiosity and skepticism as his hands awkwardly fixes the buttons that are not even loose. The sealed room is rather dark, leaving only dim light emanating from candles, forming half a circle which fences her. That alone already gives out a mysterious atmosphere, especially now that the darkness makes the room appear like it is separated from the rest of the world with blinding sun outside.

Her eyes snap open when the person is barely two steps away from where he originally stands. “I’m sorry… no photos or recording, please… that will make them angry…”

Startled, the person gulps, taking a step back.

She closes her eyes—again.

“Are you sure this is going to work?” the person who previously tried approaching whispers, sliding closer to the distraught middle-aged woman who waits faithfully.

“I’m not a superstitious person myself,” she replies. “But then…”

“This is not superstition, the spirits are truly talking to me!” the girl speaks again. “You are free to walk out of here anytime you wish if you don’t believe me.”

“F-forgive me! I wasn’t trying to offend you!” the distraught woman quickly responds.

The man from prior fixates his eyes on the girl. She is probably not older than fifteen—softspoken and rather timid when he first got there. He watched how she interacted with the distraught woman, who came looking for a son who went missing since the weekend. The girl did not say much but merely taking the distraught woman by the hand to get inside, gently seating her on the floor.

The woman followed with half-blank expression then, and he tailed her. The interior of the room is very simple—just typical teenage girl’s room with a single bed and a desk and a chair with a desk lamp to study. There is a small shelf containing glossy magazine and comic books, and her backpack can be seen leaning at the foot of her bed. The girl gracefully moves across the room like she is gliding seamlessly that he was almost, almost so tempted to scoop her just to see if she was indeed floating in the air. Still not saying anything the girl drew her curtain closed, and the very moment she was done doing so, the air in the room changed.

When the newspaper he works for suggested to him to investigate a new trending phenomenon on social media, he was delighted. The new trend talks about consulting clairvoyants and mediums to seek answers and even solve problems through an unconventional way, commonly popular with teenagers. He is a reporter. It is only natural to possess a strong sense of curiosity, and he did not subtly hide his excitement when his supervisor finally sent him off to do it. There is something endearing in reporting teenagers, if not merely for the sense of nostalgia which takes him back to the golden days of being one with the same fervent curiosity and excitement.

Older people often frown, wondering why teenagers are easily drawn to supernatural stories, drawn to play with ghosts. Revisiting his own golden days as he picked up his equipment and identification vest he was glad not to be one of them, now as an adult because—because he has been there.

He recalls those days when he banded together with a group of friends, sneaking into their school late night with tape recorder and low-quality camera phone befitting the decadent. He recalls the nerve-wrecking yet exciting emotion he felt when darkness crept around the group, shrouding them with goosebumps as well as the anxiety-inducing of uncertainties. Are the staircases truly changing numbers when being climbed up while counting loudly? Is there truly a sound of a basketball being dribbled in the court when no player is around? Are those lights truly turning off on their own, or is it a malfunction? And then there were the good old days when he and his classmates crowded a makeshift Ouija board. Rather than the antique wooden plate with numbers and letters engraved on it, they simply wrote all the letters and numbers on a piece of paper, using a coin as a medium. Teens asked various things—first to playfully test the spirits they invited, then to ask serious questions such as whether their sick cat would be healed, if a boyfriend was cheating, and whether so-and-so teacher truly was pregnant.

One time someone mindlessly asked when she would die, and the air around them turned out tight as the coin did not stop dancing around two specific letters— _HEHEHEHE._

That night said classmate was found dead out of choking on the cola she was drinking, unable to breathe because a family member cracked a hilarious joke which tickled people’s sense of humors. Nobody talked about consulting spirits again ever since, and he found himself thrown at the crossroads instead—were they thinking too highly of the spirits, or those previously hailed so much turned out to be nothing but evil?

When the news regarding the so-called demon child phenomenon reached him, he was more than glad to be tasked reporting it. No, he decided he would not be one of those people who frowned and laughed—he would be there to just see and listen, and hopefully put some rational perspective in the column he would be writing later.

After contacting several teenagers on social media, he finally found his target—Sara, the so-called demon child.

* * *

 

She does not recall how old she was when everything happened. Perhaps it is no longer important, because ever since it did, nothing separated her from them anymore. One thing she is sure of, however, is the pale woman with large bloody scar at the corner of her forehead did not lie when they first became acquainted—spending her time mostly alone at an orphanage she is still staying in is not the best experience to live, she figures, but their arrival makes it bearable for her. She remembers being so sad and irritated one particular cold night—perhaps because other kids get sent gifts at times, perhaps because some kids get to go to live with kind people their matron refers as foster parents.

At that time she has no idea what that even supposes to mean. But foster papa and foster mama tend to come back with gifts each time they make their multiple arrivals to the orphanage, or snacks such as chocolate bars and candies which can be considered as luxuries even though their basic necessities are fulfilled. At that time, she figures she is too silent to be anyone’s favorite, because she mostly shakes her head and shyly retreats when one of the visiting potential foster parents approaches with a pack of chocolate candies.

“What is your name, my sweet?” she smiles, coming closer. “Don’t you want some?”

She says no.

She says no, and that day she learned that it is not anyone’s favorite to hear either. Matron scolds her for being rude, to which she simply asks how because that was all she said—no. One word, one rejection, nothing less and nothing more. That day she learns something new—first, most adults only like it when children are simply seen and not heard; second, being an orphan automatically rescinds one’s right to have likes and dislikes anymore, or so it seems. She begins wondering how the kids who left before her fare. Are they happy? Are they still liking the foods they like and disliking those they do not? Can they even say they like and dislike certain things?

Matron makes her clean the bathroom that night. For discipline, she says, because it is supposed to teach her something. And one that one is done, she has to clean another bathroom among four shared between thirty kids in the building. And another. Then another. And one in her room which appears to be messier compared to the other four. _Weird,_ she concludes, because the rest of the kids are to keep theirs clean, spotless if possible. And she figures the matron’s to be like that if not better. Because she will say, over and over again, that dirty bathrooms do not do well for potential donors and foster parents. “Don’t you want to live in a nice house with the people who care?” the matron asks sweetly.

She asks back if one of these nice people will not make her eat what she does not want.

At that time, the matron sweetly urges her to also do everyone’s bedding because curiosity requires a lot of thinking, potentially causing insomnia while kids like her need their good sleep because they are growing. And by taking away the excessive energy she spent on questioning everything, good sleep will be obtained when the body reaches that stage where it just wants a good rest.

She tries telling the matron that the appalled prospective parent did not realize she picked up a throwaway box—the chocolates were expired, and those eating them might get mild food poisoning.

“You should not say… weird things, Sara,” the matron speaks sweetly again, with a flash in her eyes. “Where did you get this… uh, information?”

She opens her mouth to speak, but slowly shakes her head regardless. She recalls what the other boy at the common room told her—with voice softer than faint whispers, with blood dripping out of his limbs, with feet as bare as a cloudless night. _Do not eat that,_ he said. _The pain will be quite a trouble that you may not rest well during the night…_

She wanted to ask why he, of all people, was to tell her about pain considering he did not even appear alright. Her eyes widened corresponding to the inquiring look she wore on her face. But the boy did not appear to be troubled at all, and the dripping blood from what appeared to be a massive wound across his body did not even make footprints over the matron’s prided carpet. Perhaps he was smart to be able to conceal that, she thought, recalling the small kid who was made to dry take the carpet out to dry under the sun after accidentally spilling milk on it—staggering and panting because a carpet roll was too big, too heavy for a kid of such age.

She had followed the kid to ask if the carpet had bloodstains or something similar, but the kid, after giving a thought and confused look, merely saying no, and she was glad that her friend was safe.

That very night, matron wakes her up as half of the kids are whimpering in pain out of throwing up and stomachache. There is that flash in her eyes again, asking why she had said what she did, as if her eyes could see through the chocolate box. The matron’s voice is sweet and lulling, giving her a moment or two to ignore the sharp pain she feels because the matron’s fingers clutch her tighter than a choking, two-size smaller shirt she received as a donation back then.

The same woman who often visits her at night stands silently behind the matron, smiling, whispering softly; with the same voice she keeps hearing at night as she stands by her bed, stroking her face when loneliness gets the best of her and other kids at school call her weird.

The matron takes a step back. She is told that the way she stares is eerie, creepy—as if she looks _through_ instead of looking at the other person. With her eyes have been fixated on the other woman behind, her smile slowly emerges that she grabs the matron back.

“Don’t worry, they will feel much better in the morning! It’s just minor food poisoning!”

“And who told you? How… how did you even know that the chocolate has gone bad?”

“Uh-huh. I am sleepy,” she replies simply, turning her back from the matron who was still way too taken aback to tell her anything else. Before returning, however, she thinks she catches soft giggling from the corner of the room, revealing the wounded boy from prior chuckling at her. Unperturbed, she casually tilts around, smiling back at him. “Thank you! I know it. I know you people never lie.”

She does not catch the matron’s horrified look. All she knows is that another figure waves at her from the corner of the dim-lighted kitchen, smiling like the others although his hand clutches on his chest. That gesture does not bother her the way his puffy bluish face does not, either. It does not matter that this other boy practically has his tongue stuck out, because his words are coherent and there is this peaceful expression gradually appearing on his face the moment she gets to talk to him.

“What? The stove?”

Calmly she walks into the kitchen, smelling an odd odor emanating from the stove. Tilting her head once again to face the matron, she casually turns the knob. “The gas is leaking,” she says. “If I did not care, you could have killed us in our sleep…”

The matron stares at her. “You can’t possibly know. Y-you can’t—“

“Of course I know,” she hums slowly, giggling at the blue-faced boy who still smiles at her. “But this is a nice thing of me to do… don’t you agree?”

The matron screams. The matron screams, whispering a thing or two about how unusual everything is. That night she bears another name, another name for the first time—

_Demon child!_

She simply shrugs, returning to her room; as bedazzled and confused as she is, to the company of her keepsake teddy bear from her parents. Or one figure who reclines against her desk, silently letting her long black hair drape over her shoulder, her torn red gown revealing scratches all over limbs. Or another who silently crosses the room to sit at the foot of her bed. Or another, who looks at her from the window, breathing heavily under the tree with rope burn marks encircling her neck.

“I remember that,” she murmurs, pressing the bear against her chest, wrapping her small arms around it. “Grandpa used to say that to Mommy. And Mommy hated Grandpa a lot, lot, lot.”

_But Mommy called you Sara._

She lifts her head, smiling at the figure reclining against her desk. “That is right! Sara. I am Sara.”

_Mommy is bathed in light._

“Are you sure?” she smiles even wider, squeezing the teddy bear tighter.

_Have we ever lied to you?_

“No,” her lips curve. “No no no.”

_Then Sara, you should pack your things. Move somewhere else…_

“Eh? Why? Where to?”

_You will be too old to stay here._

“Oh. Right. I suppose. But why? I’ve seen older kids.”

_Sara, this place will…_

“Will what?”

_It will be the last time you get to talk with us too._

“Eeeh? No! You are all my friends. My only friends.”

_No, we are sure we won’t be the last._

“Really?”

_Of course. Many people do not notice this, but we are everywhere, actually._

“Hmmm. But it gets lonely sometimes. I wish they could see you too, you know? You are so nice to me. One of you went to school with me. If not because of you, I wouldn’t know the teacher was writing tests in the morning!”

_That means you are special!_

“Sometimes I don’t want to be,” she whispers. “Perhaps if I wasn’t, Daddy wouldn’t leave so early?”

_But we are glad to meet you too!_

“Oh.”

That night she sleeps so soundly, so soundly like someone was cradling her. Only that she hears her name being called again and again— _Sara…_ —in such a lulling gentle tone, so gentle that she is so sure she is dreaming. She does understand, but there’s a familiar feeling about the whole episode when another figure, bathed in light, appears before her. Suddenly her mind is full of to-do-list— _Pack your clothes… your books… don’t worry about what you can’t fit in the backpack because you won’t need it._

Like prior, she can feel her body easily moving to do what she was told. In pitch-black darkness she seamlessly crosses room after room, suddenly getting this idea to silently take the key slid under fridge mat. She hardly ever got closer to the fridge outside of meal time, anyway—the matron would like to talk a thing or two about preserving food, and undisciplined kids snacking at night ruin the pattern because she usually plans a shopping list just right for each of the thirty kids.

As silent as prior she opens the door, inserting the other key to breach the padlock securing the gate. Putting them on the ground she runs without looking back, up, up to the higher lands of a nearby hill just like what the figure told her in the dream.

… Or not, and she does not care. It has been a while since she waits, waits, and waits as her legs carry her as fast as they can—to another building, following soft whispers like the playful touch of night breeze.

_Don’t move, Sara._

She stays still on the hill.

_Down here. Down, down down—_

Her legs begin to give in considering she has been running non-stop and only gets to rest a little when she is on the hill. She must have been rather far from the orphanage, because the buildings around look different. Desperately tilting her head back and forth she tries to seek for a guiding voice—but there is none, not even a breeze, not even a gentle call of her name. Suddenly there is some kind of realization slowly manifesting in her mind—why did she leave again? What for? And why here? Why did she only pack her backpack with all the essentials there? There’s a piece of bread. Just a tumbler of water. But why did she pack her birth certificate and other important documents with her? Why—

The more she thinks about it, the more she feels lost. The more she tries to find an answer, it is like her brain shuts down, akin to a door being slammed shut without compromise. And the more she tries to dig deeper, her head feels throbbing that she decides to stop.

Right when she takes a few sip to relieve her tired body, a boy around her age is seen exiting the big building before her. He is so surprised, regardless, but looking relieved that it is just another little girl like him. She can see that he is taking the trash out, and currently approaching her—which, she is not faulting, considering she too feels lost as to why she ran there.

“Where did you come from?” he asks.

She simply points out at the direction—the hill, that is; voice is still lost in the panting her legs forced her on a journey.

“C-Can it be that you…” the boy looks at her with bulging eyes, not wasting another time to grab her hand to take her inside.

That very night she can hear sounds of ambulance sirens from somewhere. As an old woman slowly comes out of the closest room to the front door, her mind begins to register everything—the boy is called Salem, it is another orphanage, and…

There was an earthquake.

An earthquake had hit the area around her orphanage prior—not actually devastating, but the old building could not withstand it that the roof collapsed with the ceiling, killing the matron instantly including half of the kids who slept at the highest floor. The rest managed to escape faster and more conveniently because she had opened the door and the gate when she left first.

She could only stare in disbelief. Her mind traveled to the teddy bear she has been hugging during the entire escape as if memories begin to normally return into her mind—her transparent friends, their warnings, everything—including the figure in light who instilled some sense of peace into her.

“Poor thing, you are shocked,” the boy gently pats her head. “What is your name? Do you remember?”

_Demon child!_

She survives then. She survives—survives, because she knows. Because she usually knows what others don’t, because she _can_ know what others don’t the way she sees what others don’t.

“S-Sara,” her voice croaks. “Sara. I am Sara. I am no—demon. I am Sara. Sara…”

“Of course you are not a demon,” the boy says. “You have such beautiful silver hair. Demons usually are not like this.”

“T-this is not the time to—you know!”

“Well, Sara,” he shrugs. “I’m saying that because I know.”

“Know… what?”

“Demons,” he looks on the floor. “And they are very much human. Like you. And me.”

* * *

 

“Your son is injured on the way home from the trip,” the girl speaks calmly, opening her eyes once again. “Kind people took him to a hospital, but it may take a while until he regains consciousness. Perhaps. The gates are closed, anyway. I don’t think it is his time now.”

“What do you mean? Can’t you give something more… detailed?”

“I’m sorry, this is all I can do,” she blinks, smiling at the distraught woman as she gets up to open the curtains she previously drew closed. “Why don’t you try contacting hospitals around the area when he last contacted you?”

“Well, that is not so magical,” the reporter mumbles quietly.

“Please don’t offend the spirits,” the girl says. “And I think you should get out of here really fast—you left your car unlocked.”

The reporter looks at her.

“I am told that your car is that one van parking outside the orphanage?” the girl, still with the same odd calmness like prior, merely sways around to open the door.

“But, who—who told you?”

“Them,” the girl replies simply. “Good luck,” she returns her attention to the distraught mother. “I wish you the best for your endeavors. Hnnn, I’m sleepy…”

“She is always like this every time she completes a—ritual—investigation—I don’t know,” the distraught woman stands up, opening her bag to retrieve an envelope she prepares. “Or so they told me.”

The reporter notices a banknote poking out of the envelope she gently lays on the girl’s bed. “That’s a grand sum for—a couple of words.”

“At least she gave me an answer,” the woman smiles sadly. “While you and your professional colleagues did not. Well, don’t be offended, I’m just saying the truth.”

“It’s alright. At least to get offended I’d need to hear something real first,” the reporter snickers.

“Well,” the woman calmly looks at him, looking at him in such a way like she is basking in this newfound peace because of what the girl revealed to her. “Did you come here in a van?”

The reporter swallows hard.

* * *

 

Friendship is perhaps nice.

Or so she thinks—even if she can only get to call one as such. Ever since Salem found her that night, they were pretty much inseparable. Salem is not much a talker like her, but there is something about him which makes her feel accepted. Is it because he never asked about her that much or seemingly unperturbed by her… quirks? She does not know, neither is she keen on finding out. After all she finds that the more she tries to explain things, the colder people’s eyes on her are—that too if they do not blatantly make fun of her first.

“You are weird,” she tells him as they lie on a flowerbed nearby.

“How so?” he smiles faintly, watching the bright sun above them.

“You never ask,” she frankly says. “And you are not afraid of me.”

“You are nice, what is there to fear?” he responds. The gentle breeze sways around the tie he wears as a part of his school uniform, and he closes his eyes for a moment. It is true; he never asked. The girl had looked like… floating, perhaps, the best way to phrase it—the moment she somehow arrived at their orphanage. She did not say much, as silent as a rock even when the evacuation officers asked why she left in the middle of the night with a backpack which screamed emergency packing. _They told me,_ she reasoned, before collapsing—something they concluded as her being traumatized by the disaster.

They never asked ever since. But at the same time it also means that they would rather not touch her at all, which leaves her sticking around him because he is the only one who would. And he discovers that she is practically just like other girls—she begins reading those glossy magazines too, and sometimes she tells him about idol groups and new albums which he gladly enjoys listening. She seems to like it a lot when he calls her name, and as they grow older as teenagers somehow her name feels so familiar, so smooth in his tongue that he secretly wishes she can call her over and over again.

“Well, you know what happened. It happened today too,” she sighs, almost sounding placid like she has no desire to deny or accept anymore—merely stating a fact. He lies still quietly, knowing well what she meant—when people somehow dug into her past and started calling her that—demon child; before quickly dispersing and running away when she had that blank stare again, like she was looking through a person instead of looking at them. He recalls her warning people to keep the windows closed because accidents happened, which it did anyway when a student got injured after a soccer ball went inside their class from the field unexpectedly. She managed to minimize the damage by closing the window by a half, anyway, yielding to the protest of their other classmates because it was hot.

“Yes, I know,” he responds from where he lies. He recalls her saying _they whispered to me that the upperclassmen are having PE today_ when they demanded her reason. He recalls being one of the few who stood by her when one of them shrieked, saying that she was not actually trying to help them but instead being a harbinger of doom. He recalls being the only person who did not leave when they cornered her, when the whiteboard eraser landed on his forehead giving him an injury with dripping blood because he took it so that it did not land on her.

“There was a nice lady who came yesterday…” she fidgets with her uniform shirt, retelling the distraught woman who has been desperate enough finding a son who never came home. “Do you believe me, Salem?” she looks at him. “Do you believe me if I said _they_ took some efforts to track this person’s life force, finding it somewhere, somewhere around the hospital…”

“I do, Sara,” he replies. “You are not a liar.”

“I like it when you call my name,” she giggles a little. “Do you believe in spirits? Like, for real?”

He shifts a little. “Why?”

“Maybe because you are a rare species,” she giggles again. “You know what, perhaps I don’t really mind even if you are saying these things just to appease me. You never laughed anyway, that is nice.”

“… I do,” he hates that he sounds like squeaking now.

“You do?”

“Yeah. I might just call them ghosts, though,” he tries chuckling.

“They like it when you refer to them as spirits. They think ‘ghost’ is dehumanizing.”

“But they are dead. They are no longer human.”

“It does not hurt to be nice to like, everyone, though,” she counters.

“You have a point,” that truly fishes a sincere laughter out of him.

“Hmmm. I like it when you laugh,” she speaks frankly again. “I’ve never seen you laugh.”

“I just did, though.”

“Yes, but only rarely. Why don’t you laugh often? You have dimples. It is cute.”

He clears his throat.

“You think I’m lying? Look, the little kid at your feet thinks so too. Poor boy, he got drowned yesterday.”

“My condolences. Is he still in pain?” he looks at the vacuum of air at his feet.

“Not anymore, he says,” she smiles at the vacuum he looks at. “He wishes he can tell his mother he loves her before he crosses to the other side, though. He says his grandmother is waiting there.”

“Then let’s help him,” suddenly he gets up, giving her a hand. “What’s the name again?”

“See, you are so nice like that,” Sara giggles, taking his hand. “Hmmm. Your hand is warm, though.”

“I am alive,” he blurts out of reflex. “Oh, my apologies, dear little kid.”

“He does not mind. He feels warm too.”

“He is ready to cross.”

“You know this well, Salem,” she sighs peacefully. “I like you. I like you a lot…”

He pauses.

“The little boy says he is contended because we are nice to him. There is his grandmother over there, he says, waiting with open hands,” she points at a direction not far from them. “But they told me it’s probably going to rain soon. We should go back to the orphanage!”

“Wise idea,” he races her. “Sara…”

“Hmmm?”

“… Why don’t we leave this place someday?” he blurts out of reflex again. “And then we can live—normally. Without those cameras and people with requests bothering you. I’ve been studying hard now, aiming for a scholarship abroad. Join me? We can go to the same school and start anew. We don’t need to go back here. Let’s get lost.”

“I’m not normal, Salem,” her gaze darkens a little. He likes her carefree demeanor—either it is because she knows what is at stake for her or because she is simply that kind of person. He admires her frankness, contrary to him who feels like there is a toad in his throat each time he wants to convey his utmost thoughts on anything. He likes that little quirky thing about her—the enigma behind her words, the way she speaks like an ancient oracle. Strangely he does not mind. And he does not mind gazing into her beautiful silvery-purple hair either.

“You are. You even hate bugs,” he tries again. “I mean it. You are smart. You can do it.”

“Well, nobody wants to play with me, so studying is the only escape. Besides, they don’t really bother me when I study,” she shrugs simply. “You are smart too. You can do it.”

“I’m not anyone’s best friend either,” he grins a little, treating her to the sight of those sweet dimples she likes so much. “I mean—Sara, I mean, _we_ can do it.”

“I have this gift,” she ponders again. “I doubt that even if we move places I’ll lose them.”

“You don’t have to. We only need to share that between us. Why would everyone need to know?”

“You are nice,” she repeats. “And you are warm. They are nice to me too, but they are cold.”

“Think about it?” he whispers. “I… I want you to be happy.”

“Of course you do. You are nice,” she laughs. “I want you to be happy too, Salem.”

“I’ll be happy if you are,” he clears his throat again. “I’ll be happy if—if you are happy with me.”

“I like it when you talk a lot,” she says simply.

“And I like it when you smile a lot,” he replies in the similar manner.

“Well, it is almost finals,” she gives in. “Let’s aim for this scholarship you talk about. After all, studying will give me a reason to deny requests.”

“Promise?”

“Sure?”

He has the urge to give his pinky finger to her, but he figures her smiling face and those billowing purple strands near his face already seal the deal more than a pinky finger can.

* * *

 

He watches her receiving the new client in her room. He had protested her, vehemently, even—but she declined, saying that this one bears more importance than any other who came so far. Others are mostly derived out of personal request while this one, she senses, acts in the search of the greater good or at least hoping to do so.

“Just this one,” she says. “It’s only one person. Won’t disturb my study.”

He gives up. He knows that she tends to be right, anyway. So he is there, tailing her to her room for the first time since she declared them both to be best friends forever—which, somehow, is bittersweet. He hates feeling like snooping on her, but her room does have a nice tranquil feeling about it, and something in him feels touched upon seeing her stuffed animal teddy resting on her bed. It is old, and it seems to him that she had tried mending it a couple of times. That very moment before she closes her curtain as always, he makes a silent vow to protect her smile.

“Frankly, young lady, I am a detective,” the client says even before she is done fortifying the room.

He shifts uncomfortably while she sits back, waiting. The man speaks so gently, murmuring so low akin to a person who does not want to disturb the dead. But far into the conversation he concludes that is not the case, because the detective does not even care about not disturbing the dead—in fact, he will gladly try interrogating one if that is even possible. Words after words come out and he tries to keep his expression calm—although at this point the detective might already have noticed he has checked his watch five times. Luckily he seems to understand after accidentally catching a glimpse of their English textbooks scattering on her bed, so he excuses himself after summarizing everything for her.

He does not say anything to return the greeting while she waves calmly as always. Opening the curtains once again, somehow he is glad to see light peeking into the room, washing over all the mystical impression the room gives when they were closed.

He feels guilty, however. Just lately he made it firmly known to her that he accepts her unconditionally.

“What do you think?” she hops onto the bed, legs dangling playfully without reservation.

“You need my opinion?” he says, grabbing one of the textbooks on her bed. “I think we need to review.”

“Come on. You know what I mean. It’s the detective,” she takes the textbook and tosses it aside. “This one sounds big, don’t you think? You are nice. I treasure you. So what you think is important, Salem.”

“Well…” he bites his lips. “Sara, this is dangerous and he should not come to you in the first place.”

“The detective just wants me to track down the missing kids,” she responds placidly, giving the book back as if rewarding him for finally telling her his honest opinion. “And I told him I couldn’t promise anything. I am not an officer or a magician, Salem.”

“See, perhaps he should have seen both instead of you,” he counters. “You are still a girl.”

“Demon child.”

“Don’t say that.”

“But they said.”

“But your parents named you Sara. I call you Sara all the time.”

“Of course, because you are Salem.”

“Then don’t call yourself that!”

She stops. He withdraws.

“… I’m sorry.”

“Are you tired?” she looks at him. “Is it because of me? Is it because…”

“No, no—“

“It is,” she whispers, handing all his books to him. “You need to rest.”

“W-we promised to study together.”

“You need to rest,” she repeats.

“And when will we study?” he asks, not budging even though she shoves the books into his hands. “I mean—I mean, when will I see you again?”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“Salem…”

“… Sara, I said I _knew_ a demon,” he murmurs, looking into the blinding sun outside. “It’s just—I know it. I know what it is capable of. And you are not at all like that. That is what I meant.”

“You can’t see what I can,” she shoots him a flat look.

“I can’t,” he nods. “But this demon I spoke of—it is a human, Sara; a horrible human—“ suddenly his hands are clasped on hers, and he speaks in a voice even lower, lower than the detective from prior. He tells her about his own story—something he had long banished into the grey web of his brain, hoping he would never have to walk that lane again. But Sara is someone he is willing to fight for, and if it means saving her, he will gladly bear the pain she bears too.

She sits straight without saying anything. Salem has talked about a cult—a horrible one, he says, which he encounters when he is in a dark place in his life. He has potential, the acolyte said; thus he was spared compared to other children who—

“… Got sacrificed?”

He can only nod. And she clasps her hands back over his. That gives him a renewed strength to go on—whatever potential it is that this acolyte brought up, he did not know—all he knew was that he was quick to know when someone is in pain, and according to the acolyte, he has the knack of calmness only adults usually possess—obedient, keen learner, not showing remorse when he was tested by having to pluck a butterfly’s wings slowly without being perturbed by the animal’s pain.

“I am that demon,” he laments, his fists digging into his hair, kneeling before her. He waits and waits, waiting on her to call him horrible. But she still stares at him, so he continues—because this acolyte picked him off the street, and they said one should not bite the hands which fed them. At first, he says, it is a bravery test. He was just a kid, and that felt normal—the world is merciless to those with soft heart indeed, proven by him trying to survive the street. But the older he got, everything became unbearable to bear—did the cat truly need to die? How about the children who got drugged and—

Suddenly he stops. She wraps her arms around him, holding his shoulders as he sobs into her shirt. He whispers and whimpers; it is horrible, he says, horrible—as his conscience began to grow, he would put up a loud music so nobody could hear him throwing up in the bathroom. He tells her the pain the acolyte inflicted on him because he tried giving one of these sacrificial lambs some water to ease their pain—and the next thing he knew he could not even lie straight on his own bed for being flogged.

He had told the acolyte about a nearby kindergarten, hoping to lure more children there, and with it he prepared his escape, earning him a place in the orphanage with the old lady the way she made her escape. There was no kindergarten, he says to her, because he made it up; because it was an army base camp, and with that planned, he bade goodbye.

“Poor you. Poor Salem. Poor dear Salem…”

“A demon won’t call me like that,” he whispers.

“But you are safe, though. You are here. We are here,” she hugs him.

“I’m not sure. I only know that his name is no longer whispered around,” he trembles.

“Then perhaps he dies. Or they caught him but can’t make it public, I don’t know,” she speaks again, in that typical calm manner she does. People usually say she is placid and bland, but somehow her placidity gives him sense of security—that exactly because it is not as bad as he thinks it is that she deadpans. “Let’s study. Let’s win that scholarship. I am a demon child and you are a demon’s apprentice.”

“You are Sara,” he smiles wryly.

“Then you are Salem. Come on, curly,” chuckling, she simply picks up the book. Other people may call her daft—insensitive—like she has no ounce of emotions left in her. But to him, it is comforting. It gives a sense of normalcy, which he suspects she is good at because if anyone needs that first, it’s her.

He smiles back. And the conversation is locked safely in the memory box, never to emerge again at least for the entire day, replaced with the subjects they are studying, the occasional teacher-bashing, taking turn to quiz each other until the clock ticks to six and she asks if he wants food.

She stands up to close the curtain while he helps tidying up the books. He catches her stop moving, and understanding the possible cause, he gently asks, having seen this a couple of times now. “Them?”

“Yes,” this time she squeaks. She is trembling—she is trembling so hard that he quickly kicks his heels to stand up, holding her close while she squirms like she is in pain. “Oh—no. No—nooo…!”

He clasps his hand over her mouth. “Sara?” he whispers. “I’m sorry, but—but you know, if people…”

She is panting. She is panting heavily, her hands digging into his sleeves. “T-they. They need. Me.”

“What? What happened?”

“New. Blood. I mean.”

“Sara, you have seen that countless times,” he speaks gently again. “Let’s get out…”

“They died a horrible death and they are in so much pain,” she whispers, and he frowns because her face pales. He misses her placidity—he misses the carefree way despite the occasional enigmatic tone in her speeches. Now that she looks so distraught, he wonders how severe her vision is. “N-no. Mother.”

He holds her again. He holds her as she whimpers, words coming out trailed and broken. Suddenly she sobs, sobbing so hard, dropping to her knees, apologizing profusely that her tears keep flowing, so much that he fears she is going to empty her tearduct right there. In between, however, he catches a couple of details— _Grandpa killed Daddy,_ she says— _Because Daddy loved Mommy._

“Not your fault,” he repeats it again and again. “Not your fault. Tell her it’s not your fault. Come on, tell her it’s not her fault!” he raises his voice to the vacuum around him, pleading—ordering…

“Daddy hated what Grandpa did,” she whispers in his embrace. “Grandpa hunted kids and dragged people to do the same. Daddy loved Mommy. Grandpa hated Mommy…”

He frowns. “Hunted kids?”

“W-what if… what if, Salem…”

“Nonsense,” he holds her tighter. “Nonsense. You are Sara. You are not the demon child or harbinger of anything. You are still the pretty girl with a caring heart with the most beautiful hair I’ve ever seen.”

“I—I am a harbinger—w-what if I share the bl—“

“Then the harbinger of happiness? Sara, it’s not your fault. Hear me—Sara. Sara, Sara, Sara. Sara.”

“I’m grateful you could not see them,” she shudders. “Those kids—those kids are treated l-like…”

“I know, Sara, I know. I’ve been there. I was there personally,” he squeaks as well. “Let’s get food.”

“You can eat?”

“For the scholarship?”

“Oh. Oh—right. S-scholarship.”

“We can share. Half and half. The rest—the rest for later. Studying makes people hungry!”

“Yes. Yes…” again, she has that look, like looking through someone instead of at them. They exit the room, and he has to let go of her hand because the matron smiles.

“Children! Perfect timing! Our benefactor is here. Come on, come on. It’s been a while since you guys got something nice? Come on… dinner? Why, he brought food too. Come on!”

He smiles at her. And she smiles back with tight lips.

They venture the common room, finding a man already waits there—silvery purple hair he has, but of course, in his subjective opinion, is less pretty than her hair. “Well!” he merrily laughs. “Now the family is complete. Come on, aren’t you hungry?”

Other kids say yes while she and Salem smile politely. Food boxes are arranged on the long table in the common room, and she forces herself to take one as he follows suit. From the corner of her eyes she sees them again—shadows restlessly sailing the floor, shadows giving her a pleading look, shadows holding their entrails, shadows with so much rage and grudge in their dead eyes that she—

“What’s the matter?”

“We have been studying. Perhaps she is exhausted,” he responds on behalf of her. “I’d take her back to her room and make her eat…”

“Hmmm…” their benefactor hums, diverting his attention elsewhere—to the other kids, to the matron, while Salem takes her hand to sneak her out with their food boxes.

“Sorry about that, Mr. Blume,” their matron smiles apologetically. “She is rather shy and quiet. He is not acquainted with many people either, so…”

She clutches on him—tighter, tighter than everything. “The entire common room smells like blood,” she whispers while he is shaking—shaking so badly that he thinks his limbs are going to fall by the time they got back to her room. “Salem, what’s the matter?”

He collapses like a sack, and she sees them again—more forceful, demanding, brutalized and broken whispering her a thing or two as she bends to feel his forehead.

_That’s him._


	5. What's the Matter?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fairytales are not supposed to be real... indeed.
> 
> Prompt 05 – Hidden Spooky Eyes

Her husband is not the kind of person who tends to believe in fairytales.

In fact, she never recalls seeing him reading fiction—he likes big ideas, and turns into philosophy books to fulfill such needs. She, on the other hand, likes them; something she first shyly confessed to him when they began courting each other. At that time he really did not mind, and if anything found it cute. She confessed to him that fairytales were akin to a portal, allowing her to visit the worlds unknown and foreign, worlds which truly are different than what she had and then conveniently returned after. It has always been a great, pleasant journey, she would demurely say, before adding in a low tone that while fairytales see a number of characters in a pinch, in the end there would always be something rewarding waiting on them. Something which would console them, freeing them from misery that hardship would be nothing but a fleeting dream of an age long past.

At that time, she felt really shy admitting these things. Perhaps it has something to do with her personal experience, growing up, having nobody but books as trusted company. Living in a quiet village has its perks, for sure, because foremost she loves the nature and the air feels so fresh that breathing almost feels like a purification. But she has a big dream, and the quietness of the countryside starts to feel more suffocating—it’s one thing to love all these beautiful things her birthplace is blessed with, but like many young people out there she craves for adventure that she made her big decision, saying goodbyes to all the kind villagers who have been taking care of her since she was very young and the ailing old lady who wishes nothing but her happiness.

Books have always been there when people don’t. In fact she does not really recall when the last time she ever established a true long-lasting friendship with other kids, and then teens, because people would always be busy and the rest others rolled their eyes at her for being a dreamer. Yet it wasn’t only consolation that she found in those books, but also lessons. Trusting her gut instinct and keeping her faith burning bright are among the things she picked up upon reading those books—something, which, somehow, saved her from unpleasant and awkward situations many times following her move to a big city.

There is always something to be anticipated for even if it’s merely fighting her way to fit into a crowded train and learning to make her voice heard, and it only takes a short time for the big city dwellers around her to learn that some things in this life is in fact, actually free, like her sincere smiles and kindness she spares everywhere she goes. The fairytales taught her to cling onto her dreams and never lose hope, so she, too would love to believe that there has to be something waiting at the rainbow’s end.

Her husband had been tongue-tied when she first confessed of this interest—more so when she showed him the stashes of fairytale books she managed to collect so far. It was the first time he had been in her apartment, for her to finally be able to feel comfortable enough opening up that much with a significant other. They have been dating for nearly two years—life could not feel any more perfect, and she would like to know if this truly is the end of the rainbow like those books told her.

He is a visionary, and in exchange he shows her his collection of philosophy books. It is fascinating, listening to him speaking—he seems to be a gifted orator because his charisma is mesmerizing. She confesses that she does not actually understand full-time of many subjects he brought up—human virtue, human nature, pessimism, optimism, pragmatism, or whatever it is which captured his fancy at the moment—but he, in a gallant manner and voice so gentle like she would imagine how the forest would whisper in those fairytale books, simply asks her to imagine that philosophy and fairytale are not necessarily _that_ different, he says, because both actually try to convey ideas to people in a language and manner they find most fitting, no matter how different it is. After all, it is something from human’s mind and meant to be consumed by human’s mind; taking people away from what is to what could have been.

“It starts with the same thing, doesn’t it?” he chuckles, throwing his fiery shoulder-length behind his ear. “What do these pieces tend to say, darling? ‘Imagine’... am I not right?”

He is. Admittedly he is. And he usually is—something she never really got the chance to tell him about; his confidence, his assurance of his steps. He might be a visionary, but he also had his feet on the ground, because like he once conveyed to her, eventually dreams would end. At that time she agreed because it would be the case for her as well—the moment she closed a fairytale book, her journey would be over, back to the real world she would be without all the knights and princes to save people from misery.

“It is okay,” he reaches out to touch her hair. “Vision takes me very far, but even after miles away I need to go back and see that either people don’t always like it or the work pile is crazy.”

She buries her face deep in his chest, admitting that even in fairytales, monsters and witches tend to show up earlier even before the princes and knights arrive to save the day. He responds by getting on his knee, demure-yet-determined asking her if she would want to brave the journey with him because gladly he will be the knight and he can water their crops as soon as they land back to the ground while she can help him to further his vision by taking him to the skies and seeing things he has never before.

She agrees—after all fairytale or not life can be too scary when being sailed alone.

* * *

 

Turns out real life and fairytales are not that different, after all—their life is truly blessed with the best of things, including finding a nice house in the quieter part of the neighborhood to settle down. It is strange but nice at the same time for them all—her husband does think that there is more to life than what is seen, resonating with her love with fairytales. Perhaps that explains why he works so hard while she settles down to take care of their love nest—being pregnant is not easy, she figures, let alone when the doctor informed her that they have been blessed with twins. Everything starts to be fruitful for her husband as well—yet at the same time this means more hard work is expected to be poured into his work, but he never complains and faithfully puts a board after board to build the stairs he need to reach the vision he projected.

For her, it is a reminiscence of her old life in the hometown—tranquil nights at the suburbs with brick houses which are mostly quiet during the day. Somehow it is strange but also endearing at the same time, having to reintroduce herself into a neighborhood which closely resembles her old one while the merciless, no-daydream-area one that is the bustling big city never asked nor cared for introductions. But once she settles down, everything improves. Neighbors come to see her after the babies are born, and turns out her husband is like many other parents out there, giving them identical names for being twins.

It feels like a little parade, to have neighbors line up to see her babies. From the housewives who tell her they can be found during the day in case she needs help to other neighbors who simply come out of courtesy, including the hermit-looking old man who lives alone and never really integrated in the communal activity their neighborhood sometimes do. Her hermit-neighbor's arrival to the baby shower kind of made people feel uneasy, but she figured it was just an old man with wrinkles; something everyone would eventually become, anyway. After all their quiet suburbs is more less like the fairytales she loved, worlds so diverse and complex populated by various faces. Her husband seems to be pleased as it mirrors his big vision of an ideal society—to wake up to different faces and not the same monotone, exhausted gray ones in the big city with ambitious office workers. Regardless the hermit gives toothy smile upon looking at her babies.

"My," he says. "Isn't he the greatest?"

"Oh, they really are great, yes," her husband answers on behalf of her. "I couldn't be any more blessed."

"It must be tiring," the old man glances down again, stroking the boy-twin. "How courageous of you, Ma'am, but I can't imagine. If only you only had one child!"

Somehow her body feels cold. There's sensation of chill sinking deep into her spine when the old man gets to be in such close proximity with her like that, more so when he touched her child. Her stomach knots in a way she cannot really explain besides that disturbing feeling upon hearing his comment. It is supposed to be well-meaning, perhaps, as she tries concluding that being old doesn't guarantee a man's knowledge regarding childbirth increases. If anything that has been quite true for twins exhausted her more, but she never even thought of specific preferences even when they started to plan having a child.

Out of reflex, she cradles her twins; her hand not leaving the boy while the girl lies in the crook of her arms. Sighing softly she darts a satisfied look at the calm girl-twin while her twin brother begins to thrash around.

"Can it be that you favor her?" the neighbor chuckles. "The loudest babies are good, you know? They are transparent. You never know what a child is thinking if they are silent, don't you agree?"

To her, the sounds feel as horrifying as an otherworldly screech, somehow, and she tells her husband that the baby shower has been too much for her post-natal condition that she would rather everything to be ended right there.

* * *

 

Regardless of her experience, the twins grow healthy and strong. She reads them fairytales, the way her grandmother did her accompanying her growing up. Her children truly complement each other because the girl wants to hear more about the knights and princes who save the world, while the boy is interested in other groups—often times, somehow those who don’t belong in the cool with shining armor ones, as his twin sister puts it. Nevertheless the boy is curious and always asks about things, something she begins to see more and more as they grow up while the girl quietly absorbs every knowledge she comes across like a sponge. She is the teacher’s pet, perfect in many ways, while the boy gets into trouble for questioning things he comes across. When they get called to the teacher’s office because the boy allegedly disrupts a class, her husband starts thinking that they may need to move him to a more advance classes.

“What did you do?” he asks the treasured son, fingertips brushing against his fiery red locks mirroring his. Still a visionary as always he never condemns his child for asking even the most absurd, shocking things—something she appreciates considering neither she nor her husband had the privilege to do so growing up.

“It’s easy,” the boy, appearing disinterested, merely fiddles with a pen and paper the school gave him to kill time while waiting for the parents’ arrival. “I was just asking—would you kill a baby if it means saving the entire humanity after that? How is one life outweighs an entire humankind? Better that early so they won’t feel anything, no?”

She gasps while her husband frowns. “There must be carelessness on my part,” he replies awkwardly, clearing his throat pretending the headmistress did not just shoot them a look. The professor is looking at them like a trapped mice, hoping either she could leave or they would first. “My boy is curious.”

“I can see that clearly, Sir,” the headmistress shifts her glasses. “But I mean...”

“Perhaps he has been reading my books—I’m a philosophy-aficionado,” her husband speaks again, quickly explaining as if realizing it may make the whole situation weirder. “Or perhaps not. I don’t monitor my children like I want them to get a chip on their necks. I wonder, what about his friends?”

They drive home in silence after that. Her son sulks all the time while her daughter tries her best to appease him—only to be rebutted. “Shut up!” he roars. “What do you know, dumbass?!”

Her husband frowns again but he does not say anything. She, on the other hand, begins to grow worried. Her son might be a curious soul, yes—but lashing out is never in his to-do list so far, and she still firmly believes it’s too early for him to do so. After all, he grew up in their love nest. Where love is abundant and fairytales are real. But the son appears pensive for the whole day after that, and she thinks she’ll leave it at that—not everything is sunny even in the love nest, anyway.

Things seem to settle down for a while that they are back to their typical life—she to her world, and he, to the growing business. Her twins still need to be attended, and little son’s curiosity only gets to be louder and louder while the little daughter’s voice only gets to be fainter and fainter as she reads more.

“What happens when people die?” the daughter asks. When she bites her lips to think of a careful answer, however, the little boy cuts in.

“Will people feel pain when they die? What if they get killed?”

She looks at him. The chilling sensation is back haunting down her spine while her son simply looks back, unperturbed. “… What did you say?” she asks. She has to mishear him, right? What kind of book did her son read again? Did her husband…

“Look, Mama, the flowers outside are blooming!” her son chirps, taking her off guard. She watches him tries to hop and jump to look from their window, listening to him talking about colors and how he can see butterflies floating around the flowers. He asks if they will stay blooming for a whole year, and slowly her guard is down—perhaps her husband is right that their boy is simply way, way, too curious. That this boy also thinks of everything he came across—while her daughter keeps her learning in silence, he, on the other hand, is a sparkling firework.

“Yes, they are butterflies. Pretty, aren’t they?” for a moment she felt guilty for feeling _crept out_ by her own son like that. It’s just a child. Just a child…

“Do they bleed like humans?”

Shocked, she fled the room.

* * *

 

“… Perhaps you think too much,” he says that night. It’s a quiet night, but to her the air around them feels like ice crystals. Where is the typical warmth they have and share together after all these years? She looks at him, finding that he appears to be tired. His eyes are dark as if what happened during the day simply absorbed his soul little by little.

“Perhaps you need to be here… more often… so you can see for yourself,” she says.

“… I’m busy,” he finally responds after a while.

“… Perhaps you are,” she murmurs. “You always are lately.”

“I’m not sitting idly in daylight,” he sighs. “I’m making my vision into reality. For you. For our family.”

“But your children need you,” this feels odd somehow. When was the last time she felt like she had to beg just so he could be reasoned with? Yet he seems to be surprised that they are having this conversation right now, which makes her stop to think for a while. Right—since when did they need to question each other regarding who does what and when? This is her love nest and—

“I’ll lock the shelves,” he concludes. “And I’ll sit down with him later.”

“… When?”

“Later,” he replies, yawning that she stops bothering him.

* * *

 

She yields to the fact that perhaps she, indeed, cannot contain that fire alone. Her own workload already takes her time and the children are indeed curious twins. With him being absent, she really thinks perhaps she should let someone else try handling her son’s questions—she tried, many times, and many times too she failed. He had asked her obscure questions, things that she never even thought of in the first place. One time he asked her why animals were so weak, and she, with the calmest face she could muster, explained to him that humans were made strong exactly because they have obligations to fulfill—to be kind with each other and to help each other in times of dire, including animals. That power comes with responsibility, and greater power means a greater responsibility as well. Her daughter appears to be satisfied—she looks at her with such deep pondering eyes mirroring hers, like she is lost in her own world just like her in her younger years. It’s tempting to check if her children too are venturing their own world, a separate one detached with this current, real world they live in—the way she makes her escape with fairytales, the way her husband prefers to see what’s further ahead than being confined in the now.

“Did your classmates trouble you?” she tries again, stroking her son’s cheek gently. Perhaps that is the root, and she dreads hearing his confession. What if he was so angry but had nobody to rely on?

“Like what?” he ponders with his head low, still looking at the blooming flowers.

“Like, if they didn’t like you,” gently she continues. “If they were rude to you. If they…” this is too hard. There is no fairytale to prepare her for this, and even if there is one, she forgot that fairytales don’t always mean everything that is sunny and good. “Did they lay a hand on you?”

“They?” he looks at her this time.

“Your classmates. Nobody… punched you or shoved you into a locker, right? Sunshine?”

“… I hate that,” suddenly he grumbles. “Sunshine sucks. It’s blinding and burning…”

Again, she looks at him.

“And of course not, Mama. They can’t. If they do, I’ll kill them!”

She holds her gasp in her throat, but her son spares a smile—the familiar smile, the smile she has always known so far. She cannot say anything when he conveniently strolls outside, frozen solid like an ice cube. Her daughter waves her hand in front of her face, forcing her to snap out of it. “Tell me,” she mutters weakly. “With whom your brother has been acquainting with him so far?”

Her daughter slowly clasps the book she is reading. “It’s the neighbor grandpa, Mama,” she says, innocently, so, so innocently which nearly drove her to smother the little girl in her embrace. Those eyes are hers, she recognizes it—while her son’s… ah, for a moment she nearly did not recognize him. Sure, he resembles her still, and his hair is still of the same color as her husband’s; the curiosity lingering in those eyes are his too, but that one—that one, she ponders, if those wander into the Purgatory while her daughter’s far and beyond in the Heavens. Now that she mentioned their eccentric neighbor, something the hermit-like old man said during the baby shower years ago emerges in her mind.

… Is she unconsciously playing favorite because the daughter is controllable while the son isn’t? Controllable? Is that also why her husband rescinded, choosing to engross himself in work and crafting his own ideal because… because the son is too much too handle? Is she failing as a mother?

“… Mama?” her daughter looks at her, wide-eyed when she suddenly gets up. This is no longer funny, she thinks, fire burns in her usually-calm eyes as she puts on her sweater and grabs her purse. Fairytales eventually need to end and her feet need to be on the ground. Faulting her husband’s carelessness for letting their son read the books too old for his age is easy, but imagining someone else corrupting her son—let alone someone who gives her unnerving feeling—she really, really cannot imagine for the worst. Did he touch her son? Did he… did he _touch_ her son?

She did not remember how she managed to get out without slamming the door in anger. Something on her feet startles her, more so when she finds out that a couple of butterflies with ripped wings woefully try to make a flight that never comes. Gasping again, she grips her phone in hand with the police merely a tap away—she really needs to settle this once and for all. This is her love nest, where care is abundant and for nothing to ever come between them with the intent of harm. Fuming mad she manages to knock on their eccentric’s neighbor home, pleasantly welcomed by the host himself.

“Ah, my little forest fairy!” his face lights up upon finding her by the door. “What can I do for you?”

“My son is here, isn’t he?” she growls like the knight with a readied shield, determined to vanquish a dragon. Or a princess trapped in the castle more than willing to fight her way out to freedom.

“Oh, yes, yes… he’s such a good kid…” he creaks the door wider in a manner which disgusts her—no, he does not hinder her from coming inside, but the way he gestures at her feels like… mocking. As if he knows that she comes pounding a war drum, ready to _vanquish_ him to oblivion—yet there he is, expression calm and collected if not _gleeful_ like someone who got a delightful visit from a grandson.

“Julius!” she calls, startling her kid. “Let’s go home.”

“Awh. Why?” her son peeks outside, leaving cake half-eaten and tea half-drank to approach her.

“Because I said so,” she prays that everything that is holy absolves her for saying this. Her grandmother said that her entire life, and she would always wish there had to be more to know than just that. But now that she is faced with such situation—something she herself cannot yet to decipher, she pulls the same tone and answer at her son… her son, curious son… her bright, smart son. “I’d like you not to approach my child ever again,” she states then, turning her attention back at the eccentric neighbor.

“But why is that?” he gapes at her. “The little one came to play and I just…”

“No,” she mutters under her breath. “I’m sorry, please understand.”

“How do I, now that you gave no reason, my dear?” in an expected turn of event he chuckles at her instead. “He and I talked. Just talked. Listen, I’m probably a social outcast, but I’m not _deviant_.”

“You never answered my questions,” her son grumbles. “Papa is always busy. Grandpa can.”

“He is not your grandfather,” she sharply responds, eyes shooting dagger glare at the neighbor. “And you can try talking with Julia. Perhaps you can learn something and she too, from you.”

“Nooo,” her son wails. “She’s a moron.”

“Where did you even learn that word?!”

“Oh, gosh. You forbade your son to increase his linguistic capabilities?” the eccentric neighbor speaks again. “I don’t think that is wise, dear. I understand, though—you are someone born of a newer generation. But here I’ve got old books befitting for your son’s intellectual quest,” he opens the door wider. “And turns out it’s an amazing feeling to have someone else appreciating your interests.”

“What old book said moron in the texts?” she says. “Julius…”

“I don’t want to go hooome.”

No longer listening she simply grabs her son, taking him away from the neighbor. The chilling sensation slowly returns to normal as her mind begins to cloud—was it too much? Was their neighbor right about her way of treating her child’s curiosity? Is her son _that_ lonely that he prefers to bond with stranger instead of his own family? Has he been consuming media unsuitable for his age, perhaps, because as parents she and her husband were neglectful, watching TV without realizing the son was still up? Admittedly what the neighbor said sounds depressing. Perhaps it’s a miracle too that he still could smile even after being ignored by his own community like that. Perhaps it’s just the perks of being old—she heard that often; old people have their quirks, and even if witches in fairytales often disguise themselves as old people, not all old people are malicious—like an ailing wise king for example. Like a…

She steals a glance from behind her shoulder. The neighbor is still standing by the door, and at this rate she begins to wonder if she should go back and apologize for assuming—or even semi-accusing him of doing the worst to her son. With that in mind somehow it is tempting to keep looking at him, when…

… She yelps. Those eyes—those eyes glow red, she thinks—wondering if it’s _her_ eyes playing trick on her. Sunsets can be like that—reddish sun slowly going to sleep, retreating under the horizon. Sunsets can create such dramatic effect—like how beautiful her husband’s hair is, like a flame tongue decorated with gold. Perhaps. Perhaps…

“… Mama?”

Her son’s concerned voice prompts her to turn around once again. “Yes?”

“What’s the matter?”

The chilling sensation is back, unnerving her. Her son smiles at her, holding her hand—

… But he isn’t supposed to wear his hair color in his eyes either.

… Right?


End file.
